NIGHT  WATCHES 


NIGHT  WATCHES 


BY 
W.  W.  JACOBS 


McKINLAY,  STONE  &  MACKENZIE 
NEW  YORK 


COPYWGHT,  1914,  B* 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
Published  October,  1914 


Stack 
Annex 


CONTENTS 
1 


«  ^. 

BACK  TO  BACK 


II 
KEEPING  WATCH    .*....,.....     31 

Ul 
THE  UNDERSTUDY ••.      53 

IV 
THE  WEAKER  VESSEL •    •    .    .      77 

V 
STEPPING  BACKWARDS 105 

VI 
THE  THREE  SISTERS 131 

VII 
THE  UNKNOWN      .    .' 151 


Contents 

VIII 

•Ml 

THE  VIGIL 175 

IX 
EASY  MONET 199 

X 
His  OTHER  SELF 225 


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TV/fRS.  SCUTTS,  concealed  behind  the 
•*-'-*•  curtain,  gazed  at  the  cab  in  uneasy 
amazement.  The  cabman  clambered  down 
from  the  box  and,  opening  the  door,  stood  by 
with  his  hands  extended  ready  for  any  help 
that  might  be  needed.  A  stranger  was  the 
first  to  alight,  and,  with  his  back  towards 
Mrs.  Scutts,  seemed  to  be  struggling  with 
something  in  the  cab.  He  placed  a  dangling 
hand  about  his  neck  and,  staggering  under  the 
weight,  reeled  backwards  supporting  Mr. 
Scutts,  whose  other  arm  was  round  the  neck 
of  a  third  man.  In  a  flash  Mrs.  Scutts  was 
at  the  door. 

"Oh,  Bill!"  she  gasped.  "And  by  day- 
light, too!*' 

Mr.  Scutts  raised  his  head  sharply  and  his 

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lips  parted;  then  his  head  sank  again,  and 
he  became  a  dead  weight  in  the  grasp  of  his 
assistants. 

"He's  all  right,"  said  one  of  them,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Scutts. 

A  deep  groan  from  Mr.  Scutts  confirmed  the 
statement. 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  his  wife,  anxiously. 

"Just  a  little  bit  of  a  railway  accident," 
said  one  of  the  strangers.  "Train  ran  into 
some  empty  trucks.  Nobody  hurt — seri- 
ously," he  added,  in  response  tc  a  terrible  and 
annoyed  groan  from  Mr.  Scutts. 

With  his  feet  dragging  helplessly,  Mr.  Scutts 
was  conveyed  over  his  own  doorstep  and 
placed  on  the  sofa. 

"All  the  others  went  off  home  on  their  own 
legs,"  said  one  of  the  strangers,  reproachfully. 
"He  said  he  couldn't  walk,  and  he  wouldn't 
go  to  a  hospital." 

"Wanted  to  die  at  home,"  declared  the 
sufferer.  "I  ain't  going  to  be  cut  about  at 
no  'ospitals." 

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The  two  strangers  stood  by  watching  him; 
then  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"I  don't  want  —  no — 'ospitals,"  gasped 
Mr.  Scutts.  "I'm  going  to  have  my  own 
doctor." 

"Of  course  the  company  will  pay  the 
doctor's  bill,"  said  one  of  the  strangers  to 
Mrs.  Scutts;  "or  they'll  send  their  own 
doctor.  I  expect  he'll  be  all  right  to-morrow.'* 

"I  'ope  so,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  "but  I  don't 
think  it.  Thank  you  for  bringing  of  me 
'ome." 

He  closed  his  eyes  languidly,  and  kept  them 
closed  until  the  men  had  departed. 

"Can't  you  walk,  Bill?"  inquired  the 
tearful  Mrs.  Scutts. 

Her  husband  shook  his  head.  "You  go 
and  fetch  the  doctor,"  he  said,  slowly.  "That 
new  one  round  the  corner." 

"He  looks  such  a  boy,"  objected  Mrs. 
Scutts. 

"You  go  and  fetch  'im,"  said  Mr.  Scutts, 
raising  his  voice.  "D'ye  hear  I" 

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"But "  began  his  wife. 

"If  I  get  up  to  you,  my  gal,"  said  the 
forgetful  Mr.  Scutts,  "you'll  know  it." 

"Why,  I  thought "  said  his  wife,  in 

surprise. 

Mr.  Scutts  raised  himself  on  the  sofa  and 
shook  his  fist  at  her.  Then,  as  a  tribute  to 
appearances,  he  sank  back  and  groaned  again. 
Mrs.  Scutts,  looking  somewhat  relieved,  took 
her  bonnet  from  a  nail  and  departed. 

The  examination  was  long  and  tedious, 
but  Mr.  Scutts,  beyond  remarking  that  he 
felt  chilly,  made  no  complaint.  He  endea- 
voured, but  in  vain,  to  perform  the  tests 
suggested,  and  even  did  his  best  to  stand, 
supported  by  his  medical  attendant.  Self- 
preservation  is  the  law  of  Nature,  and  when 
Mr.  Scutts's  legs  and  back  gave  way  he  saw 
to  it  that  the  doctor  was  underneath. 

"We'll  have  to  get  you  up  to  bed,"  said  the 
latter,  rising  slowly  and  dusting  himself. 

Mr.  Scutts,  who  was  lying  full  length  on 
the  floor,  acquiesced,  and  sent  his  wife  for 

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some  neighbours.  One  of  them  was  a  pro- 
fessional furniture-remover,  and,  half-way 
up  the  narrow  stairs,  the  unfortunate  had  to 
remind  him  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  British 
working  man,  and  not  a  piano.  Four  pairs 
of  hands  deposited  Mr.  Scutts  with  mathe- 
matical precision  in  the  centre  of  the  bed 
and  then  proceeded  to  tuck  him  in,  while  Mrs. 
Scutts  drew  the  sheet  in  a  straight  line  under 
his  chin. 

"  Don't  look  much  the  matter  with  *im," 
said  one  of  the  assistants. 

"You  can't  tell  with  a  face  like  that," 
said  the  furniture-remover.  "It's  wot  you 
might  call  a  'appy  face.  Why,  he  was  'arf 
smiling  as  we  carried  'im  up  the  stairs." 

"You're  a  liar,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  opening 
his  eyes. 

"All  right,  mate,"  said  the  furniture- 
remover;  "all  right.  There's  no  call  to  get 
annoyed  about  it.  Good  old  English  pluck, 
I  call  it.  Where  d'you  feel  the  pain  ?" 

"All  over,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  briefly. 

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His  neighbours  regarded  him  with  sym- 
pathetic eyes,  and  then,  led  by  the  furniture- 
remover,  filed  out  of  the  room  on  tip-toe. 
The  doctor,  with  a  few  parting  instructions, 
also  took  his  departure. 

"If  you're  not  better  by  the  morning,"  he 
said,  pausing  at  the  door,  "you  must  send 
for  your  club  doctor." 

Mr.  Scutts,  in  a  feeble  voice,  thanked  him, 
and  lay  with  a  twisted  smile  on  his  face  listen- 
ing to  his  wife's  vivid  narrative  to  the  little 
crowd  which  had  collected  at  the  front  door. 
She  came  back,  followed  by  the  next-door 
neighbour,  Mr.  James  Flynn,  whose  offers  of 
assistance  ranged  from  carrying  Mr.  Scutts  out 
pick-a-back  when  he  wanted  to  take  the  air, 
to  filling  his  pipe  for  him  and  fetching  his 
beer. 

"But  I  dare  say  you'll  be  up  and  about  in 
a  couple  o'  days,"  he  concluded.  "You 
wouldn't  look  so  well  if  you'd  got  any- 
thing serious  the  matter;  rosy,  fat  cheeks 

and " 

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"That'll  do,"  said  the  indignant  invalid. 
"It's  my  back  that's  hurt,  not  my  face." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Flynn,  nodding  sagely; 
"but  if  it  was  hurt  bad  your  face  would  be 
as  white  as  that  sheet — whiter." 

"The  doctor  said  as  he  was  to  be  kep'  quiet," 
remarked  Mrs.  Scutts,  sharply. 

"Right-o,"  said  Mr.  Flynn.  "Ta-ta,  old 
pal.  Keep  your  pecker  up,  and  if  you  want 
your  back  rubbed  with  turps,  or  anything  of 
that  sort,  just  knock  on  the  wall." 

He  went,  before  Mr.  Scutts  could  think  of 
a  reply  suitable  for  an  invalid  and,  at  the  same 
time,  bristling  with  virility.  A  sinful  and 
foolish  desire  to  leap  out  of  bed  and  help  Mr. 
Flynn  downstairs  made  him  more  rubicund 
than  ever. 

He  sent  for  the  club  doctor  next  morning, 
and,  pending  his  arrival,  partook  of  a  basin 
of  arrowroot  and  drank  a  little  beef-tea.  A 
bottle  of  castor-oil  and  an  empty  pill-box  on 
the  table  by  the  bedside  added  a  little  local 
colour  to  the  scene. 

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"Any  pain?"  inquired  the  doctor,  after 
an  examination  in  which  bony  and  very  cold 
fingers  had  played  a  prominent  part. 

"Not  much  pain,"  said  Mr.  Scutts.  "Don't 
seem  to  have  no  strength  in  my  back." 

"Ah!"  said  the  doctor. 

"I  tried  to  get  up  this  morning  to  go  to  my 
work,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  "but  I  can't  stand — 
I  couldn't  get  out  of  bed." 

"Fearfully  upset,  he  was,  pore  dear," 
testified  Mrs.  Scutts.  "He  can't  bear  losing 
a  day.  I  s'pose — I  s'pose  the  railway  com- 
pany will  'ave  to  do  something  if  it's  serious, 
won't  they,  sir  ? " 

"Nothing  to  do  with  me,"  said  the  doctor. 
"I'll  put  him  on  the  club  for  a  few  days;  I 
expect  he  will  be  all  right  soon.  He's  got  a 
healthy  colour — a  very  healthy  colour." 

Mr.  Scutts  waited  until  he  had  left  the  house 
and  then  made  a  few  remarks  on  the  colour 
question  that  for  impurity  of  English  and 
strength  of  diction  have  probably  never 
been  surpassed. 

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A  second  visitor  that  day  came  after  dinner — 
a  tall  man  in  a  frock-coat,  bearing  in  his 
hand  a  silk  hat,  which,  after  a  careful  survey 
of  the  room,  he  hung  on  a  knob  of  the  bed- 
post. 

"Mr.  Scutts?"  he  inquired,  bowing. 

"That's  me,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  in  a  feeble 
voice. 

"I've  called  from  the  railway  company," 
said  the  stranger.  "We  have  seen  now  all 
those  who  left  their  names  and  addresses  on 
Monday  afternoon,  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that 
nobody  was  really  hurt.  Nobody." 

Mr.  Scutts,  in  a  faint  voice,  said  he  was  glad 
to  hear  it. 

"Been  a  wonder  if  they  had,"  said  the  other, 
cheerfully.  "Why,  even  the  paint  wasn't 
knocked  off  the  engine.  The  most  serious 
damage  appears  to  be  two  top-hats  crushed 
and  an  umbrella  broken." 

He  leaned  over  the  bed-rail  and  laughed 
joyously.  Mr.  Scutts,  through  half-closed 
eyes,  gazed  at  him  in  silent  reproach. 

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"I  don't  say  that  one  or  two  people  didn't 
receive  a  little  bit  of  a  shock  to  their  nerves," 
said  the  visitor,  thoughtfully.  "One  lady 
even  stayed  in  bed  next  day.  However,  I 
made  it  all  right  with  them.  The  company  is 
very  generous,  and  although  of  course  there 
is  no  legal  obligation,  they  made  several  of 
them  a  present  of  a  few  pounds,  so  that  they 
could  go  away  for  a  little  change,  or  anything 
of  that  sort,  to  quiet  their  nerves." 

Mr.  Scutts,  who  had  been  listening  with 
closed  eyes,  opened  them  languidly  and  said, 
"Oh." 

"I  gave  one  gentleman  twen-ty  pounds!" 
said  the  visitor,  jingling  some  coins  in  his 
trouser-pocket.  "I  never  saw  a  man  so 
pleased  and  grateful  in  my  life.  When  he 
signed  the  receipt  for  it — I  always  get  them 
to  sign  a  receipt,  so  that  the  company  can  see 
that  I  haven't  kept  the  money  for  myself — 
he  nearly  wept  with  joy." 

"I  should  think  he  would,"  said  Mr. 
Scutts,  slowly — "if  he  wasn't  hurt." 

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"You're  the  last  on  my  list,"  said  the 
other,  hastily.  He  produced  a  slip  of  paper 
from  his  pocket-book  and  placed  it  on  the 
small  table,  with  a  fountain  pen.  Then, 
with  a  smile  that  was  both  tender  and  playful, 
he  plunged  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  poured 
a  stream  of  gold  on  the  table. 

"What  do  you  say  to  thir-ty  pounds?" 
he  said,  in  a  hushed  voice.  "  Thir-ty  golden 
goblins  ? " 

"What  for?"  inquired  Mr.  Scutts,  with  a 
notable  lack  of  interest. 

"For — well,  to  go  away  for  a  day  or  two," 
said  the  visitor.  "I  find  you  in  bed;  it  may 
be  a  cold  or  a  bilious  attack;  or  perhaps  you 
had  a  little  upset  of  the  nerves  when  the  trains 
kissed  each  other." 

"I'm  in  bed — because — I  can't  walk — or 
stand,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  speaking  very  dis- 
tinctly. "I'm  on  my  club,  and  if  as  'ow  I  get 
well  in  a  day  or  two,  there's  no  reason  why 
the  company  should  give  me  any  money. 
I'm  pore,  but  I'm  honest." 

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"Take  my  advice  as  a  friend,"  said  the 
other;  "take  the  money  while  you  can  get 
it." 

He  nodded  significantly  at  Mr.  Scutts  and 
closed  one  eye.  Mr.  Scutts  closed  both  of 
his. 

"I  'ad  my  back  hurt  in  the  collision,"  he 
said,  after  a  long  pause.  "I  'ad  to  be  helped 
'ome.  So  far  it  seems  to  get  worse,  but  I  'ope 
for  the  best." 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  visitor;  "how  sad! 
I  suppose  it  has  been  coming  on  for  a  long 
time.  Most  of  these  back  cases  do.  At  least 
all  the  doctors  say  so." 

"It  was  done  in  the  collision,"  said  Mr. 
Scutts,  mildly  but  firmly.  "I  was  as  right 
as  rain  before  then." 

The  visitor  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 
"Ah !  you  would  have  great  difficulty  in 
proving  that,"  he  said,  softly;  "in  fact, 
speaking  as  man  to  man,  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  it  would  be  impossible.  I'm  afraid  I'm 
exceeding  my  duty,  but,  as  you're  the  last  on 

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my  list,  suppose — suppose  we  say  forty  pounds. 
Forty !  A  small  fortune." 

He  added  some  more  gold  to  the  pile  on  the 
table,  and  gently  tapped  Mr.  Scutts's  arm 
with  the  end  of  the  pen. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  the  invalid. 

The  visitor,  justly  concerned  at  his  lack  of 
intelligence,  took  a  seat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  spoke  to  him  as  a  friend  and  a  brother, 
but  in  vain.  Mr.  Scutts  reminded  him  at  last 
that  it  was  medicine-time,  after  which,  pain 
and  weakness  permitting,  he  was  going  to  try 
to  get  a  little  sleep. 

"  Forty  pounds ! "  he  said  to  his  wife,  after 
the  official  had  departed.  "Why  didn't  'e 
offer  me  a  bag  o'  sweets  ?" 

"It's  a  lot  o'  money,"  said  Mrs.  Scutts, 
wistfully. 

"So's  a  thousand,"  said  her  husband.  "I 
ain't  going  to  'ave  my  back  broke  for  nothing, 
I  can  tell  you.  Now,  you  keep  that  mouth 
o'  yours  shut,  and  if  I  get  it,  you  shall  'ave 
a  new  pair  o'  boots." 


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"A  thousand !"  exclaimed  the  startled 
Mrs.  Scutts.  "Have  you  took  leave  of  your 
senses,  or  what  ?" 

"I  read  a  case  in  the  paper  where  a  man 
got  it,"  said  Mr.  Scutts.  "He  'ad  his  back 
'urt  too,  pore  chap.  How  would  you  like  to 
lay  on  your  back  all  your  life  for  a  thousand 
pounds  ?" 

"  Will  you  'ave  to  lay  abed  all  your  life  ? " 
inquired  his  wife,  staring. 

"Wait  till  I  get  the  money,"  said  Mr. 
Scutts;  "then  I  might  be  able  to  tell  you 
better." 

He  gazed  wistfully  at  the  window.  It  was 
late  October,  but  the  sun  shone  and  the  air 
was  clear.  The  sound  of  traffic  and  cheerful 
voices  ascended  from  the  little  street.  To 
Mr.  Scutts  it  all  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  a 
distant  past. 

"If  that  chap  comes  round  to-morrow  and 
offers  me  five  hundred,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I 
don't  know  as  I  won't  take  it.  I'm  sick  of 
this  mouldy  bed." 


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He  waited  expectantly  next  day,  but  nothing 
happened,  and  after  a  week  of  bed  he  began  to 
realize  that  the  job  might  be  a  long  one.  The 
monotony,  to  a  man  of  his  active  habits, 
became  almost  intolerable,  and  the  narrated 
adventures  of  Mr.  James  Flynn,  his  only  caller^ 
filled  him  with  an  uncontrollable  longing  to  be 
up  and  doing. 

The  fine  weather  went,  and  Mr.  Scutts,  in 
his  tumbled  bed,  lay  watching  the  rain  beat- 
ing softly  on  the  window-panes.  Then  one 
morning  he  awoke  to  the  darkness  of  a  London 
fog. 

"It  gets  worse  and  worse,"  said  Mrs.  Scutts, 
as  she  returned  home  in  the  afternoon  with 
a  relish  for  his  tea.  "Can't  see  your  'and 
before  your  face." 

Mr.  Scutts  looked  thoughtful.  He  ate  his 
tea  in  silence,  and  after  he  had  finished  lit  his 
pipe  and  sat  up  in  bed  smoking. 

"Penny  for  your  thoughts,"  said  his  wife. 

"I'm  going  out,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  in  a 
voice  that  defied  opposition.  "I'm  going  to 


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'ave  a  walk,  and  when  I'm  far  enough  away 
I'm  going  to  'ave  one  or  two  drinks.  I  believe 
this  fog  is  sent  a-purpose  to  save  my  life." 

Mrs.  Scutts  remonstrated,  but  in  vain,  and 
at  half-past  six  the  invalid,  with  his  cap  over 
his  eyes  and  a  large  scarf  tied  round  the  lower 
part  of  his  face,  listened  for  a  moment  at  his 
front  door  and  then  disappeared  in  the  fog. 

Left  to  herself,  Mrs.  Scutts  returned  to  the 
bedroom  and,  poking  the  tiny  fire  into  a  blaze, 
sat  and  pondered  over  the  wilfulness  of  men. 

She  was  awakened  from  a  doze  by  a  knocking 
at  the  street-door.  It  was  just  eight  o'clock, 
and,  inwardly  congratulating  her  husband  on 
his  return  to  common  sense  and  home,  she 
went  down  and  opened  it.  Two  tall  men  in 
silk  hats  entered  the  room. 

"Mrs.  Scutts?"  said  one  of  them. 

Mrs.  Scutts,  in  a  dazed  fashion,  nodded. 

"We  have  come  to  see  your  husband,"  said 
the  intruder.  "I  am  a  doctor." 

The  panic-stricken  Mrs.  Scutts  tried  in  vain 
to  think. 

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"He — he's  asleep,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"Doesn't  matter,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  his  companion. 

"You — you  can't  see  him,"  protested  Mrs. 
Scutts.  "He  ain't  to  be  seen." 

"He'd  be  sorry  to  miss  me,"  said  the 
doctor,  eyeing  her  keenly  as  she  stood  on 
guard  by  the  inner  door.  "I  suppose  he's  at 
home?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Scutts,  stammering 
and  flushing.  "Why,  the  pore  man  can't 
stir  from  his  bed." 

"Well,  I'll  just  peep  in  at  the  door,  then," 
said  the  doctor.  "I  won't  wake  him.  You 
can't  object  to  that.  If  you  do " 

Mrs.  Scutts's  head  began  to  swim.  "I'll  go 
up  and  see  whether  he's  awake,"  she  said. 

She  closed  the  door  on  them  and  stood  with 
her  hand  to  her  throat,  thinking.  Then, 
instead  of  going  upstairs,  she  passed  into  the 
yard  and,  stepping  over  the  fence,  opened  Mr. 
Flynn's  back  door. 

"Halloa!"  said  that  gentleman,  who  was 
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standing  in  the  scullery  removing  mud  from 
his  boots.     "What's  up?" 

In  a  frenzied  gabble  Mrs.  Scutts  told  him. 
"You  must  be  'im,"  she  said,  clutching  him  by 
the  coat  and  dragging  him  towards  the  door. 
"They've  never  seen  'im,  and  they  won't 
know  the  difference." 

"But "  exclaimed  the  astonished  James. 

"Quick!"  she  said,  sharply.  "Go  into 
the  back  room  and  undress,  then  nip  into  his 
room  and  get  into  bed.  And  mind,  be  fast 
asleep  all  the  time." 

Still  holding  the  bewildered  Mr.  Flynn  by 
the  coat,  she  led  him  into  the  house  and  waved 
him  upstairs,  and  stood  below  listening  until 
a  slight  creaking  of  the  bed  announced  that 
he  had  obeyed  orders.  Then  she  entered  the 
parlour. 

"He's  fast  asleep,"  she  said,  softly;  "and 
mind,  I  won't  'ave  him  disturbed.  It's  the 
first  real  sleep  he's  'ad  for  nearly  a  week.  If 
you  promise  not  to  wake  'im  you  may  just 
have  a  peep." 

20 


Back  to  Back 

"We  won't  disturb  him,"  said  the  doctor, 
and,  followed  by  his  companion,  noiselessly 
ascended  the  stairs  and  peeped  into  the  room. 
Mr.  Flynn  was  fast  asleep,  and  not  a  muscle 
moved  as  the  two  men  approached  the  bed 
on  tip-toe  and  stood  looking  at  him.  The 
doctor  turned  after  a  minute  and  led  the  way 
out  of  the  room. 

"We'll  call  again,"  he  said,  softly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Scutts.     "When?" 

The  doctor  and  his  companion  exchanged 
glances.  "I'm  very  busy  just  at  present," 
he  said,  slowly.  "We'll  look  in  some  time 
and  take  our  chance  of  catching  him  awake." 

Mrs.  Scutts  bowed  them  out,  and  in  some 
perplexity  returned  to  Mr.  Flynn.  "I  don't 
like  the  look  of  ?em,"  she  said,  shaking  her 
head.  "You'd  better  stay  in  bed  till  Bill 
comes  'ome  in  case  they  come  back." 

"Right-o,"  said  the  obliging  Mr.  Flynn. 
"Just  step  in  and  tell  my  landlady  I'm  'aving 
a  chat  with  Bill." 

He  lit  his  pipe  and  sat  up  in  bed  smoking 
21 


Back  to  Back 

until  a  knock  at  the  front  door  at  half-past 
eleven  sent  him  off  to  sleep  again.  Mrs. 
Scutts,  who  was  sitting  downstairs,  opened  it 
and  admitted  her  husband. 

"All  serene?"  he  inquired.  "What  are 
you  looking  like  that  for?  What's  up?'* 

He  sat  quivering  with  alarm  and  rage  as 
she  told  him,  and  then,  mounting  the  stairs 
with  a  heavy  tread,  stood  gazing  in  helpless 
fury  at  the  slumbering  form  of  Mr.  James 
Flynn. 

"Get  out  o'  my  bed,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a 
choking  voice. 

"What,  Bill!"  said  Mr.  Flynn,  opening  his 
eyes. 

"Get  out  o*  my  bed,"  repeated  the  other. 
"You've  made  a  nice  mess  of  it  between  you. 
It's  a  fine  thing  if  a  man  can't  go  out  for  'arf 
a  pint  without  coming  home  and  finding  all 
the  riff-raff  of  the  neighbourhood  in  'is 
bed." 

"'Ow's  the  pore  back,  Bill?"  inquired  Mr. 
Flynn,  with  tenderness. 

22 


Back  to  Back 

Mr.  Scutts  gurgled  at  him.  "Outside!" 
he  said  as  soon  as  he  could  get  his  breath. 

"Bill,"  said  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Scutts,  outside 
the  door. 

"Halloa,"  growled  her  husband. 

"He  mustn't  go,"  said  Mrs.  Scutts.  "Those 
gentlemen  are  coming  again,  and  they  think 
he  is  you." 

"WHAT!"  roared  the  infuriated  Mr.  Scutts. 

"Don't  you  see?  It's  me  what's  got  the 
pore  back  now,  Bill,"  said  Mr.  Flynn.  "You 
can't  pass  yourself  off  as  me,  Bill;  you  ain't 
good-looking  enough." 

Mr.  Scutts,  past  speech,  raised  his  clenched 
fists  to  the  ceiling. 

"He'll  'ave  to  stay  in  your  bed,"  continued 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Scutts.  "He's  got  a  good 
'art,  and  I  know  he'll  do  it;  won't  you, 
Jim?" 

Mr.  Flynn  pondered.  "Tell  my  landlady 
in  the  morning  that  I've  took  your  back 
room,"  he  said.  "What  a  fortunit  thing  it 
is  I'm  out  o'  work.  What  are  you  walking 

23 


Back  to  Back 

up  and  down  like  that  for,  Bill  ?    Back  coming 
on  agin  ?" 

"Then  o'  course,"  pursued  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Scutts,  in  meditative  accents,  "there's  the 
club  doctor  and  the  other  gentleman  that 
knows  Bill.  They  might  come  at  any  moment. 
There's  got  to  be  two  Bills  in  bed,  so  that  if 
one  party  comes  one  Bill  can  nip  into  the 
back  room,  and  if  the  other  Bill — party,  I 
mean — comes,  the  other  Bill — you  know  what 
I  mean !" 

Mr.  Scutts  swore  himself  faint. 

"That's  'ow  it  is,  mate,"  said  Mr.  Flynn. 
"It's  no  good  standing  there  saying  your 
little  piece  of  poetry  to  yourself.  Take  off  your 
clo'es  and  get  to  bed  like  a  little  man.  Now! 
now!  Naughty!  Naughty!" 

"P'r'aps  I  oughtn't  to  'ave  let  'em  up, 
Bill,"  said  his  wife;  "but  I  was  afraid  they'd 
smell  a  rat  if  I  didn't.  Besides,  I  was  took 
by  surprise." 

"You  get  off  to  bed,"  said  Mr.  Scutts. 
"Get  off  to  bed  while  you're  safe." 

24 

\ 


Back  to  Back 

"And  get  a  good  night's  rest,"  added  the 
thoughtful  Mr.  Flynn.  "If  Bill's  back  is  took 
bad  in  the  night  I'll  look  after  it." 

Mr.  Scutts  turned  a  threatening  face  on 
him.  "For  two  pins "  he  began. 

"For  two  pins  I'll  go  back  'ome  and  stay 
there,"  said  Mr.  Flynn. 

He  put  one  muscular  leg  out  of  bed, 
and  then,  at  the  earnest  request  of  Mr.  Scutts, 
put  it  back  again.  In  a  few  simple,  manly 
words  the  latter  apologized,  by  putting  all  the 
blame  on  Mrs.  Scutts,  and,  removing  his 
clothes,  got  into  bed. 

Wrapped  in  bedclothes,  they  passed  the 
following  day  listening  for  knocks  at  the  door 
and  playing  cards.  By  evening  both  men 
were  weary,  and  Mr.  Scutts  made  a  few  pointed 
remarks  concerning  dodging  doctors  and  deceit- 
ful visitors  to  which  Mr.  Flynn  listened  in 
silent  approval. 

"They  mightn't  come  for  a  week,"  he  said, 
dismally.  "It's  all  right  for  you,  but  where 
do  I  come  in  ?  Halves  ?" 

25 


Back  to  Back 

Mr.  Scutts  had  a  rush  of  blood  to  the 
head. 

"You  leave  it  to  me,  mate,"  he  said,  con- 
trolling himself  by  an  effort.  "If  I  get  ten 
quid,  say,  you  shall  have  'arf." 

"And  suppose  you  get  more?"  demanded 
the  other. 
.    "We'll  see,"  said  Mr.  Scutts,  vaguely. 

Mr.  Flynn  returned  to  the  charge  next  day, 
but  got  no  satisfaction.  Mr.  Scutts  preferred 
to  talk  instead  of  the  free  board  and  lodging 
his  friend  was  getting.  On  the  subject  of  such 
pay  for  such  work  he  was  almost  eloquent. 

"I'll  bide  my  time,"  said  Mr.  Flynn,  darkly. 
"Treat  me  fair  and  I'll  treat  you  fair." 

His  imprisonment  came  to  an  end  on  the 
fourth  day.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  the  sound  of  men's  voices,  followed  by  the 
hurried  appearance  of  Mrs.  Scutts. 

"It's  Jim's  lot,"  she  said,  in  a  hurried 
whisper.  "I've  just  come  up  to  get  the  room 
ready." 

Mr.  Scutts  took  his  friend  by  the  hand,  and 
26 


Back  to  Back 

after  warmly  urging  him  not  to  forget  the 
expert  instructions  he  had  received  concerning 
his  back,  slipped  into  the  back  room,  and,  a 
prey  to  forebodings,  awaited  the  result. 

"Well,  he  looks  better,"  said  the  doctor, 
regarding  Mr.  Flynn. 

"Much  better,"  said  his  companion. 

Mrs.  Scutts  shook  her  head.  "His  pore 
back  don't  seem  no  better,  sir,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "Can't  you  do  something  for  it  ?" 

"Let  me  have  a  look  at  it,"  said  the  doctor. 
"Undo  your  shirt." 

Mr.  Flynn,  with  slow  fingers,  fumbled  with 
the  button  at  his  neck  and  looked  hard  at  Mrs. 
Scutts. 

"She  can't  bear  to  see  me  suffer,"  he  said, 
in  a  feeble  voice,  as  she  left  the  room. 

He  bore  the  examination  with  the  fortitude 
of  an  early  Christian  martyr.  In  response  to 
inquiries  he  said  he  felt  as  though  the  main- 
spring of  his  back  had  gone. 

"How  long  since  you  walked?"  inquired- 
the  doctor. 

27 


Back  to  Back 

"Not  since  the  accident,"  said  Mr.  Flynn, 
firmly. 

"Try  now,"  said  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Flynn  smiled  at  him  reproachfully. 

"You  can't  walk  because  you  think  you 
can't,"  said  the  doctor;  "that  is  all.  You'll 
have  to  be  encouraged  the  same  way  that  a 
child  is.  I  should  like  to  cure  you,  and  I 
think  I  can." 

He  took  a  small  canvas  bag  from  the  other 
man  and  opened  it.  "Forty  pounds,"  he 
said.  "Would  you  like  to  count  it?" 

Mr.  Flynn's  eyes  shone 

"It  is  all  yours,"  said  the  doctor,  "if  you 
can  walk  across  the  room  and  take  it  from 
that  gentleman's  hand." 

"Honour  bright?"  asked  Mr.  Flynn,  in 
tremulous  tones,  as  the  other  man  held 
up  the  bag  and  gave  him  an  encouraging 
smile. 

"Honour  bright,"  said  the  doctor. 

With  a  spring  that  nearly  broke  the  bed, 
Mr.  Flynn  quitted  it  and  snatched  the  bag, 

28 


Back  to  Back 

and  at  the  same  moment  Mrs.  Scutts,  impelled 
by  a  maddened  arm,  burst  into  the  room. 

"Your  back!"  she  moaned.  "It'll  kill 
you  Get  back  to  bed." 

"I'm  cured,  lovey,"  said  Mr.  Flynn,  simply. 

"His  back  is  as  strong  as  ever,"  said  the 
doctor,  giving  it  a  thump. 

Mr.  Flynn,  who  had  taken  his  clothes  from 
a  chair  and  was  hastily  dressing  himself, 
assented. 

"But  if  you'll  wait  'arf  a  tick  I'll  walk  as 
far  as  the  corner  with  you,"  he  said,  quickly. 
"I'd  like  to  make  sure  it's  all  right." 

He  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and, 
glancing  up  at  the  palid  and  murderous  face 
of  Mr.  Scutts,  which  protruded  from  the  back 
bedroom,  smiled  at  him  rapturously.  Then, 
with  a  lordly  air,  he  tossed  him  five  pieces  of 
gold. 


KEEPING  WATCH 


Keeping  Watch 

"TTUMAN  natur'!"  said  the  night-watch- 

•*-  -*•    man,  gazing  fixedly  at  a  pretty  girl  in  a 

passing  waterman's  skiff.     "Human  natur'!" 

He  sighed,  and,  striking  a  match,  applied  it 

to  his  pipe  and  sat  smoking  thoughtfully. 

"The  young  fellow  is  pretending  that  his 
arm  is  at  the  back  of  her  by  accident,"  he 
continued;  "and  she's  pretending  not  to 
know  that  it's  there.  When  he's  allowed  to 
put  it  round  'er  waist  whenever  he  wishes, 
he  won't  want  to  do  it.  She's  artful  enough 
to  know  that,  and  that's  why  they  are  all  so 
stand-offish  until  the  thing  is  settled.  She'll 
move  forward  'arf  an  inch  presently,  and  'arf 
a  minute  arterwards  she'll  lean  back  agin 
without  thinking.  She's  a  nice-looking  gal, 
and  what  she  can  see  in  a  tailor's  dummy  like 
that,  I  can't  think." 

33 


Keeping  Watch 

He  leaned  back  on  his  box  and,  folding  his 
arms,  emitted  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"Human  natur's  a  funny  thing.  I've  seen 
a  lot  of  it  in  my  time,  and  if  I  was  to  'ave 
my  life  all  over  agin  I  expect  I  should  be  just 
as  silly  as  them  two  in  the  skiff.  I've  known 
the  time  when  I  would  spend  money  as  free 
over  a  gal  as  I  would  over  myself.  I  on'y 
wish  I'd  got  all  the  money  now  that  I've 
spent  on  peppermint  lozenges. 

"That  gal  in  the  boat  reminds  me  o'  one  I 
used  to  know  a  few  years  ago.  Just  the  same 
innercent  baby  look — a  look  as  if  butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  'er  mouth — and  a  artful 
disposition  that  made  me  sorry  for  'er  sects. 

"She  used  to  come  up  to  this  wharf  once 
a  week  in  a  schooner  called  the  Belle.  Her 
father,  Cap'n  Butt,  was  a  widow-man,  and  'e 
used  to  bring  her  with  'im,  partly  for  company 
and  partly  because  'e  could  keep  'is  eye  on 
her.  Nasty  eye  it  was,  too,  when  he  'appened 
to  be  out  o*  temper. 

"I'd  often  took  a  bit  o'  notice  o*  the  gal; 
34 


Keeping  Watch 

just  giving  'er  a  kind  smile  now  and  then  as 
she  sat  on  deck,  and  sometimes — when  'er 
father  wasn't  looking — she'd  smile  back.  Once, 
when  'e  was  down  below,  she  laughed  right 
out.  She  was  afraid  of  'im,  and  by  and  by 
I  noticed  that  she  daren't  even  get  off  the 
ship  and  walk  up  and  down  the  wharf  without 
asking  'im.  When  she  went  out  'e  was  with 
'er,  and,  from  one  or  two  nasty  little  snacks 
I  'appened  to  overhear  when  the  skipper 
thought  I  was  too  far  away,  I  began  to  see 
that  something  was  up. 

"It  all  came  out  one  evening,  and  it  only 
came  out  because  the  skipper  wanted  my  help. 
I  was  standing  leaning  on  my  broom  to  get 
my  breath  back  arter  a  bit  o'  sweeping,  when 
he  came  up  to  me,  and  I  knew  at  once,  by 
the  nice  way  'e  spoke,  that  he  wanted  me  to 
do  something  for  'im. 

"  'Come  and  'ave  a  pint,  Bill,'  he  ses. 

"I  put  my  broom  agin  the  wall,  and  we 
walked  round  to  the  Bull's  Head  like  a  couple 
o*  brothers.  We  'ad  two  pints  apiece,  and 

35 


Keeping  Watch 

then   he   put   his   'and   on   my   shoulder   and 
talked  as  man  to  man. 

"  'I'm  in  a  little  bit  o'  difficulty  about  that 
gal  o'  mine/  he  ses,  passing  me  his  baccy-box. 
'Six  months  ago  she  dropped  a  letter  out  of 
'er  pocket,  and  I'm  blest  if  it  wasn't  from  a 
young  man.  A  young  man  /* 

"  'You  sur-prise  me,'  I  ses,  meaning  to  be 
sarcastic. 

"  'I  surprised  her,'  he  ses,  looking  very 
fierce.  'I  went  to  'er  box  and  I  found  a  pile 
of  'em — a  pile  of  'em — tied  up  with  a  piece  o' 
pink  ribbon.  And  a  photygraph  of  my  lord. 
And  of  all  the  narrer-chested,  weak-eyed, 
slack-baked,  spindly-legged  sons  of  a  gun  you 
ever  saw  in  your  life,  he  is  the  worst.  If  I 
on'y  get  my  'ands  on  him  I'll  choke  'im  with 
his  own  feet.' 

"He  washed  'is  mouth  out  with  a  drop  o' 
beer  and  stood  scowling  at  the  floor. 

1  'Arter  I've  choked  'im  I'll  twist  his  neck,' 
he  ses.  'If  he  'ad  on'y  put  his  address  on  'is 
letters,  I'd  go  round  and  do  it  now.  And  my 

36 


Keeping  Watch 

daughter,   my  only  daughter,  won't  tell   me 
where  he  lives.' 

"  'She  ought  to  know  better,'  I  ses. 

"He  took  hold  o'  my  'and  and  shook  it. 
'You've  got  more  sense  than  one  'ud  think  to 
look  at  you,  Bill,'  he  ses,  not  thinking  wot  h« 
was  saying.  'You  see  wot  a  mess  I'm  in.' 

"  'Yes,'  I  ses. 

!  'I'm  a  nurse,  that's  wot  I  am,'  he  ses,  very 
savage.  'Just  a  nursemaid.  I  can't  move  'and 
or  foot  without  that  gal.  'Ow'd  you  like  it, 
yourself,  Bill?' 

:  'It  must  be  very  orkard  for  you,'  I  ses. 
'Very  orkard  indeed.' 

"'Orkard!'  he  ses;  'it's  no  name  for  it, 
Bill.  I  might  as  well  be  a  Sunday-school 
teacher,  and  ha'  done  with  it.  I  never  'ad 
such  a  dull  time  in  all  my  life.  Never.  And 
the  worst  of  it  is,  it's  spiling  my  temper.  And 
all  because  o'  that  narrer-eyed,  red-chested — 
you  know  wot  I  mean !' 

"He  took  another  mouthful  o'  beer,  and 
then  he  took  'old  of  my  arm.  'Bill,'  he 

37 


Keeping  Watch 

ses,  very  earnest,   'I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
favour/ 

"  'Go  ahead,'  I  ses. 

"  'I've  got  to  meet  a  pal  at  Charing  Cross 
at  ha'-past  seven,'  he  ses;  'and  we're  going 
to  make  a  night  of  it.  I've  left  Winnie  in 
charge  o'  the  cook,  and  I've  told  'im  plain 
that,  if  she  ain't  there  when  I  come  back,  I'll 
skin  'im  alive.  Now,  I  want  you  to  watch  'er, 
too.  Keep  the  gate  locked,  and  don't  let 
anybody  in  you  don't  know.  Especially  that 
monkey-faced  imitation  of  a  man.  Here  'e  is. 
That's  his  likeness.' 

"He  pulled  a  photygraph  out  of  'is  coat- 
pocket  and  'anded  it  to  me. 

'That's  'im/  he  ses.  'Fancy  a  gal  getting 
love-letters  from  a  thing  like  that !  And  she 
was  on'y  twenty  last  birthday.  Keep  your 
eye  on  'er,  Bill,  and  don't  let  'er  out  of  your 
sight.  You're  worth  two  o'  the  cook.' 

"He  finished  'is  beer,  and,  cuddling  my 
arm,  stepped  back  to  the  wharf.  Miss  Butt 
was  sitting  on  the  cabin  skylight  reading  a 

38 


**-r*£D 

Keeping  Watch 

book,  and  old  Joe,  the  cook,  was  standing  near 
'er  pretending  to  swab  the  decks  with  a  mop. 

'  'I've  got  to  go  out  for  a  little  while — on 
business,'  ses  the  skipper.  'I  don't  s'pose  I 
shall  be  long,  and,  while  I'm  away,  Bill  and 
the  cook  will  look  arter  you.' 

"Miss  Butt  wrinkled  up  'er  shoulders. 

'The  gate'll  be  locked,  and  you're  not  to 
leave  the  wharf.    D'ye 'ear?' 

"The  gal  wriggled  'er  shoulders  agin  and 
went  on  reading,  but  she  gave  the  cook  a 
look  out  of  'er  innercent  baby  eyes  that  nearly 
made  'im  drop  the  mop. 

"  'Them's  my  orders,'  ses  the  skipper, 
swelling  his  chest  and  looking  round,  'to 
everybody.  You  know  wot'll  'appen  to  you, 
Joe,  if  things  ain't  right  when  I  come  back. 
Come  along,  Bill,  and  lock  the  gate  arter 
me.  An'  mind,  for  your  own  sake,  don't  let 
anything  'appen  to  that  gal  while  I'm  away.' 

"  'Wot  time'll  you  be  back?'  I  ses,  as  'e 
stepped  through  the  wicket. 

'  'Not  afore  twelve,  and  p'r'aps  a  good  bit 
39 


Keeping  Watch 

later,'  he  ses,  smiling  all  over  with  'appiness. 
'But  young  slab-chest  don't  know  I'm  out, 
and  Winnie  thinks  I'm  just  going  out  for  'arf 
an  hour,  so  it'll  be  all  right.  So  long.' 

"I  watched  'im  up  the  road,  and  I  must 
say  I  began  to  wish  I  'adn't  taken  the  job  on. 
Arter  all,  I  'ad  on'y  had  two  pints  and  a  bit 
o'  flattery,  and  I  knew  wot  5ud  'appen  if  any- 
thing went  wrong.  Built  like  a  bull  he  was, 
and  fond  o'  using  his  strength.  I  locked  the 
wicket  careful,  and,  putting  the  key  in  my 
pocket,  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  wharf. 

"For  about  ten  minutes  the  gal  went  on 
reading  and  didn't  look  up  once.  Then,  as 
I  passed,  she  gave  me  a  nice  smile  and  shook 
'er  little  fist  at  the  cook,  wot  'ad  got  'is  back 
towards  'er.  I  smiled  back,  o'  course,  and  by 
and  by  she  put  her  book  down  and  climbed 
on  to  the  side  o'  the  ship  and  held  out  her  'and 
for  me  to  'elp  her  ashore. 

'I'm  so  tired  of  the  ship,'  she  ses,  in  a 
soft  voice;  'it's  like  a  prison.  Don't  you  get 
tired  of  the  wharf?' 

40 


Keeping  Watch 

"  'Sometimes,'  I  ses;   'but  it's  my  dooty/ 

"  'Yes/  she  ses.  'Yes,  of  course.  But 
you're  a  big,  strong  man,  and  you  can  put  up 
with  things  better.' 

"She  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  we  walked  up 
and  down  for  a  time  without  saying  anything. 

"  'And  it's  all  father's  foolishness,'  she  scs, 
at  last;  'that's  wot  makes  it  so  tiresome.  I 
can't  help  a  pack  of  silly  young  men  writing 
to  me,  can  I  ? ' 

"  'No,  I  s'pose  not,'  I  ses. 

"  'Thank  you,'  she  ses,  putting  Jer  little 
'and  on  my  arm.  'I  knew  that  you  were 
sensible.  I've  often  watched  you  when  I've 
been  sitting  alone  on  the  schooner,  longing 
for  somebody  to  speak  to.  And  I'm  a  good 
judge  of  character.  I  can  read  you  like  a 
book.' 

"She  turned  and  looked  up  at  me.  Beauti- 
ful blue  eyes  she'd  got,  with  long,  curling 
lashes,  and  teeth  like  pearls. 

"  'Father  is  so  silly,'  she  ses,  shaking  her  'ead 
and  looking  down;  'and  it's  so  unreasonable, 

4* 


Keeping  Watch 

because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  like  young 
men.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  mean 
that.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude.' 

"'Rude?'  I  ses,  staring  at  her. 

"  'Of  course  it  was  a  rude  thing  for  me  to 
say,'  she  ses,  smiling;  'because  you  are  still  a 
young  man  yourself.' 

"I  shook  my  'ead.    'Youngish,'  I  ses. 
'Young!'  she  ses,  stamping  'er  little  foot. 

"She  gave  me  another  look,  and  this  time 
'er  blue  eyes  seemed  large  and  solemn.  She 
walked  along  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  twice 
she  tripped  over  the  planks  and  would  'ave 
fallen  if  I  hadn't  caught  'er  round  the  waist. 

"  'Thank  you,'  she  ses.  'I'm  very  clumsy. 
How  strong  your  arm  is  ! ' 

"We  walked  up  and  down  agin,  and  every 
time  we  went  near  the  edge  of  the  jetty  she 
'eld  on  to  my  arm  for  fear  of  stumbling  agin. 
And  there  was  that  silly  cook  standing  about 
on  the  schooner  on  tip-toe  and  twisting  his  silly 
old  neck  till  I  wonder  it  didn't  twist  off. 

'Wot  a  beautiful  evening  it  is!'  she  ses, 
42 


Keeping  Watch 

at  last,  in  a  low  voice.  'I  'ope  father  isn't 
coming  back  early.  Do  you  know  wot  time  he 
is  coming  home  ? ' 

"  'About  twelve,'  I  ses;  'but  don't  tell  'im 
1  told  you  so.' 

"  'O'  course  not,'  she  ses,  squeezing  my 
arm.  '  Poor  father !  I  hope  he  is  enjoying 
himself  as  much  as  I  am.' 

"We  walked  down  to  the  jetty  agin  arter 
that,  and  sat  side  by  side  looking  acrost  the 
river.  And  she  began  to  talk  about  Life,  and 
wot  a  strange  thing  it  was;  and  'ow  the  river 
would  go  on  flowing  down  to  the  sea  thousands 
and  thousands  o'  years  arter  we  was  both  dead 
and  forgotten.  If  it  hadn't  ha'  been  for  her 
little  'ead  leaning  agin  my  shoulder  I  should 
have  'ad  the  creeps. 

"  'Let's  go  down  into  the  cabin,'  she  ses,  at 
last,  with  a  little  shiver;  'it  makes  me  melan- 
choly sitting  here  and  thinking  of  the  "might- 
have-beens." 

"I  got  up  first  and  'elped  her  up,  and,  arter 
both  staring  hard  at  the  cook,  wot  didn't  seem 

43 


,    Keeping  Watch 

to  know  'is  place,  we  went  down  into  the  cabin. 
It  was  a  comfortable  little  place,  and  arter  she 
'ad  poured  me  out  a  glass  of  'er  father's  whisky, 
and  filled  my  pipe  for  me,  I  wouldn't  ha' 
changed  places  with  a  king.  Even  when  the 
pipe  wouldn't  draw  I  didn't  mind. 

"  'May  I  write  a  letter  ?'  she  ses,  at  last. 

"  'Sartainly,'  I  ses. 

"She  got  out  her  pen  and  ink  and  paper, 
and  wrote.  'I  sha'n't  be  long,'  she  ses,  look- 
ing up  and  nibbling  'er  pen.  'It's  a  letter  to 
my  dressmaker;  she  promised  my  dress  by  six 
o'clock  this  afternoon,  and  I  am  just  writing 
to  tell  her  that  if  I  don't  have  it  by  ten  in  the 
mormng  she  can  keep  it.' 

'  'Quite  right,'  I  ses;   'it's  the  on'y  way  to 
get  things  done.' 

'It's  my  way/  she  ses,  sticking  the  letter 
in  an  envelope  and  licking  it  down.  'Nice 
name,  isn't  it  ?' 

"She  passed  it  over  to  me,  and  I  read  the 
name  and  address:  'Miss  Minnie  Miller,  17, 
John  Street,  Mile  End  Road. ' 

44 


Keeping  Watch 

"  *  That'll  wake  her  up,'  she  ses,  smiling. 
'Will  you  ask  Joe  to  take  it  for  me  ?' 

"  'He — he's  on  guard,'  I  ses,  smiling  back 
at  'er  and  shaking  my  'ead. 

'I  know,'  she  ses,  in  a  low  voice.  'But  I 
don't  want  any  guard — only  you.  I  don't 
like  guards  that  peep  down  skylights.' 

"I  looked  up  just  in  time  to  see  Joe's 
'ead  disappear.  Then  I  nipped  up,  and  arter 
I  'ad  told  'im  part  of  wot  I  thought  about 
'im  I  gave  'im  the  letter  and  told  'im  to  sheer 
off. 

'The  skipper  told  me  to  stay  'ere,'  he  ses, 
looking  obstinate. 

'You  do  as  you're  told,'  I  ses.  'I'm  in 
charge,  and  I  take  full  responsibility.  I  shall 
lock  the  gate  arter  you.  Wot  are  you  worrying 
about  ?' 

"  'And  here's  a  shilling,  Joe,  for  a  bus  fare,* 
ses  the  gal,  smiling.  'You  can  keep  the 
change/ 

"Joe  took  off  'is  cap  and  scratched  'is  silly 
bald  'ead. 

45 


Keeping  Watch 

"  'Come  on,'  I  ses;  'it's  a  letter  to  a  dress- 
maker. A  letter  that  must  go  to-night.' 

"  'Else  it's  no  use,'  ses  the  gal.  'You  don't 
know  'ow  important  it  is.' 

"  'All  right,'  ses  Joe.  '  'Ave  it  your  own 
way.  So  long  as  you  don't  tell  the  skipper  I 
don't  mind.  If  anything  'appens  you'll  catch 
it  too,  Bill/ 

"He  climbed  ashore,  and  I  follered  'im  to 
the  gate  and  unlocked  it.  He  was  screwing 
up  'is  eye  ready  for  a  wink,  but  I  give  'im 
such  a  look  that  he  thought  better  of  it,  and, 
arter  rubbing  his  eye  with  'is  ringer  as  though 
he  'ad  got  a  bit  o'  dust  in  it,  he  went  off. 

"I  locked  the  gate  and  went  back  to  the 
cabin,  and  for  some  time  we  sat  talking  about 
fathers  and  the  foolish  ideas  they  got  into 
their  'eads,  and  things  o'  that  sort.  So  far  as 
I  remember,  I  'ad  two  more  goes  o'  whisky  and 
one  o'  the  skipper's  cigars,  and  I  was  just 
thinking  wot  a  beautiful  thing  it  was  to  be 
alive  and  'ealthy  and  in  good  spirits,  talking 
to  a  nice  gal  that  understood  wot  you  said 

46 


Keeping  Watch 

a'most  afore  you  said  it,  when  I  'card  three 
blows  on  a  whistle. 

"  'Wot's  that?'  I  ses,  starting  up.  'Police 
whistle?' 

"  'I  don't  think  so,'  ses  Miss  Butt,  putting 
her  'and  on  my  shoulder.  'Sit  down  and 
stay  where  you  are.  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
hurt,  if  it  is.  Let  somebody  I  don't  like  go/ 

"I  sat  down  agin  and  listened,  but  there 
was  no  more  whistling. 

"  'Boy  in  the  street,  I  expect,'  ses  the  gal, 
going  into  the  state-room.  'Oh,  I've  got 
something  to  show  you.  Wait  a  minute.' 

"I  'card  her  moving  about,  and  then  she 
comes  back  into  the  cabin. 

"  'I  can't  find  the  key  of  my  box,'  she  ses, 
'and  it's  in  there.  I  wonder  whether  you've 
got  a  key  that  would  open  it.  It's  a  padlock.' 

"I  put  my  'and  in  my  pocket  and  pulled 
out  my  keys.  'Shall  I  come  and  try?'  I 


ses. 

N 


'No,  thank  you,'  she  ses,  taking  the  keys. 
'This  looks  about  the  size.    What  key  is  it?' 

47 


Keeping  Watch 

"'It's  the  key  of  the  gate,'  I  ses,  'but  I 
don't  suppose  it'll  fit.' 

"She  went  back  into  the  state-room  agin,  and 
I  'card  her  fumbling  at  a  lock.  Then  she  came 
back  into  the  cabin,  breathing  rather  hard,  and 
stood  thinking. 

"  'I've  just  remembered,'  she  ses,  pinching 
her  chin.  'Yes!' 

"She  stepped  to  the  door  and  went  up  the 
companion-ladder,  and  the  next  moment  I 
'card  a  sliding  noise  and  a  key  turn  in  a  lock. 
I  jumped  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder  and,  'ardly 
able  to  believe  my  senses,  saw  that  the  hatch 
was  closed.  When  I  found  that  it  was  locked 
too,  you  might  ha'  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather. 

"I  went  down  to  the  cabin  agin,  and, 
standing  on  the  locker,  pushed  the  skylight  up 
with  my  'ead  and  tried  to  look  out.  I  couldn't 
see  the  gate,  but  I  'card  voices  and  footsteps, 
and  a  little  while  arterwards  I  see  that  gal 
coming  along  the  wharf  arm  in  arm  with  the 
young  man  she  'ad  told  me  she  didn't  like, 

48 


Keeping  Watch 

and  dancing  for  joy.  They  climbed  on  to  the 
schooner,  and  then  they  both  stooped  down 
with  their  hands  on  their  knees  and  looked  at 
me. 

"  'Wot  is  it  ?'  ses  the  young  man,  grinning. 

"  'It's  a  watchman,'  ses  the  gal.  'It's  here 
to  take  charge  of  the  wharf,  you  know,  and  see 
that  nobody  comes  on.' 

"  'We  ought  to  ha'  brought  some  buns  for 
it,'  ses  the  young  man;  'look  at  it  opening  its 
mouth/ 

"They  both  laughed  fit  to  kill  themselves, 
but  I  didn't  move  a  muscle. 

"  'You  open  the  companion,'  I  ses,  'or 
it'll  be  the  worse  for  you.  D'ye  hear  ?  Open 
it!' 

"  'Oh,  Alfred,'  ses  the  gal,  'he's  losing  'is 
temper.  Wotever  shall  we  do?' 

"  'I  don't  want  no  more  nonsense,'  I  ses, 
trying  to  fix  'er  with  my  eye.  'If  you  don't 
let  me  out  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you.' 

"  'Don't  you  talk  to  my  young  lady  like 
that,'  ses  the  young  man. 

49 


Keeping  Watch 

"'Your  young  lady?'  I  ses.  'H'mm! 
You  should  ha'  seen  'er  'arf  an  hour  ago.' 

"The  gal  looked  at  me  steady  for  a  moment. 

"  'He  put  'is  nasty  fat  arm  round  my  waist, 
Alfred/  she  ses. 

"'Wot!'  ses  the  young  man,  squeaking. 
'WOT!' 

"He  snatched  up  the  mop  wot  that  nasty, 
untidy  cook  'ad  left  leaning  agin  the  side,  and 
afore  I  'ad  any  idea  of  wot  'e  was  up  to  he 
shoved  the  beastly  thing  straight  in  my  face. 

'  'Next  time/,  he  ses,  Til  tear  you  limb 
from  limb ! ' 

"I  couldn't  speak  for  a  time,  and  when  I 
could  'e  stopped  me  with  the  mop  agin.  It 
was  like  a  chained  lion  being  tormented  by  a 
monkey.  I  stepped  down  on  to  the  cabin  floor, 
and  then  I  told  'em  both  wot  I  thought  of  'em. 
'  'Come  along,  Alfred,'  ses  the  gal,  'else  the 
cook'll  be  back  before  we  start.' 

;  'He's  all  right,'  ses  the  young  man. 
'Minnie's  looking  arter  him.  When  I  left 
he'd  got  'arf  a  bottle  of  whisky  in  front  of  'im/ 

SO 


Keeping  Watch 

"  'Still,  we  may  as  well  go,'  ses  Miss  Butt. 
'It  seems  a  shame  to  keep  the  cab  waiting/ 

"  'All  right,'  he  ses.  'I  just  want  to  give 
this  old  chump  one  more  lick  with  the  mop 
and  then  we'll  go.' 

"He  peeped  down  the  skylight  and  waited, 
but  I  kept  quite  quiet,  with  my  back  to- 
wards 'im. 

"  'Come  along,'  ses  Miss  Butt. 

"'I'm  coming,'  he  ses.  'Hi!  You  down 
there !  When  the  cap'n  comes  back  tell  'im 
that  I'm  taking  Miss  Butt  to  an  aunt  o*  mine  in 
the  country.  And  tell  'im  that  in  a  week  or  two 
he'll  'ave  the  largest  and  nicest  piece  of  wedding- 
cake  he  'as  ever  'ad  in  his  life.  So  long!* 

"  'Good-bye,  watchman,'  ses  the  gal. 

"They  moved  off  without  another  word — 
from  them,  I  mean.  I  heard  the  wicket  slam 
and  then  I  'card  a  cab  drive  off  over  the 
stones.  I  couldn't  believe  it  at  first.  I 
couldn't  believe  a  gal  with  such  beautiful  blue 
eyes  could  be  so  hard-'earted,  and  for  a  long 
time  I  stood  listening  and  hoping  to  'ear  the 


Keeping  Watch 

cab  come  back.  Then  I  stepped  up  to  the 
companion  and  tried  to  shift  it  with  my 
shoulders. 

"I  went  back  to  the  cabin  at  last,  and  arter 
lighting  the  lamp  I  'ad  another  sup  o'  the 
skipper's  whisky  to  clear  my  'ead,  and  sat 
down  to  try  and  think  wot  tale  I  was  to  tell 
'im.  I  sat  for  pretty  near  three  hours  without 
thinking  of  one,  and  then  I  'card  the  crew 
come  on  to  the  wharf. 

"They  was  a  bit  startled  when  they  saw 
my  'ead  at  the  skylight,  and  then  they  all 
started  at  the  same  time  asking  me  wot  I  was 
doing.  I  told  'em  to  let  me  out  fust  and  then 
I'd  tell  'em,  and  one  of  'em  'ad  just  stepped 
round  to  the  companion  when  the  skipper 
come  on  to  the  wharf  and  stepped  aboard. 
He  stooped  down  and  peeped  at  me  through 
the  skylight  as  though  he  couldn't  believe 
'is  eyesight,  and  then,  arter  sending  the  hands 
for'ard  and  telling  'em  to  stay  there,  wotever 
'appened,  he  unlocked  the  companion  and  came 
down." 

52 


THE  UNDERSTUDY 


The  Understudy 

""T\OGS  on  board  ship  is  a  nuisance,"  said 
••-^  the  night-watchman,  gazing  fiercely  at 
the  vociferous  mongrel  that  had  chased  him 
from  the  deck  of  the  Henry  William  ;  "the 
skipper  asks  me  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  ship,  and 
then  leaves  a  thing  like  that  down  in  the  cabin." 

He  leaned  against  a  pile  of  empty  casks  to 
recover  his  breath,  shook  his  fist  at  the  dog, 
and  said,  slowly — 

Some  people  can't  make  too  much  of  'em. 
They  talk  about  a  dog's  honest  eyes  and  his 
faithful  'art.  I  'ad  a  dog  once,  and  I  never 
saw  his  eyes  look  so  honest  as  they  did  one 
day  when  'e  was  sitting  on  a  pound  o'  beef- 
steak we  was  'unting  high  and  low  for. 

I've  known  dogs  to  cause  a  lot  of  trouble 
in  my  time.  A  man  as  used  to  live  in  my 

55 


The  Understudy 

street  told  me  he  'ad  been  in  jail  three  times 
because  dogs  follered  him  'ome  and  wouldn't 
go  away  when  he  told  'em  to.  He  said  that 
some  men  would  ha'  kicked  'em  out  into  the 
street,  but  he  thought  their  little  lives  was 
far  too  valuable  to  risk  in  that  way. 

Some  people  used  to  wink  when  'e  talked 
like  that,  but  I  didn't:  I  remembered  a  dog 
that  took  a  fancy  to  old  Sam  Small  and  Ginger 
Dick  and  Peter  Russet  once  in  just  the  same 
way. 

It  was  one  night  in  a  little  public-'ouse 
down  Commercial  Road  way.  They  'ad  on'y 
been  ashore  a  week,  and,  'aving  been  turned 
out  of  a  music-' all  the  night  afore  because  a 
man  Ginger  Dick  had  punched  in  the  jaw 
wouldn't  behave  'imself,  they  said  they'd 
spend  the  rest  o'  their  money  on  beer  instead. 
There  was  just  the  three  of  'em  sitting  by 
themselves  in  a  cosy  little  bar,  when  the  door 
was  pushed  open  and  a  big  black  dog  came  in. 

He  came  straight  up  to  Sam  and  licked  his 
'and.  Sam  was  eating  a  arrowroot  biscuit 

56 


The  Understudy 

with  a  bit  o'  cheese  on  it  at  the  time.  He 
wasn't  wot  you'd  call  a  partickler  sort  o' 
man,  but,  seeing  as  'ow  the  dog  was  so  careless 
that  'e  licked  the  biscuit  a'most  as  much  as 
he  did  his  'and,  he  gave  it  to  'im.  The  dog 
took  it  in  one  gulp,  and  then  he  jumped  up 
on  Sam's  lap  and  wagged  his  tail  in  'is  face 
for  joy  and  thankfulness. 

"He's  took  a  fancy  to  you,  Sam,"  ses  Ginger. 

Sam  pushed  the  dog  off  on  to  the  floor  and 
wiped  his  face. 

"He's  a  good  dog,  by  the  look  of  'im,"  ses 
Peter  Russet,  who  was  country  bred. 

He  bought  a  sausage-roll,  and  him  and  the 
dog  ate  it  between  'em.  Then  Ginger  Dick 
bought  one  and  gave  it  to  'im,  and  by  the  time 
it  was  finished  the  dog  didn't  seem  to  know 
which  one  of  'em  he  loved  the  most. 

"Wonder  who  he  belongs  to?"  ses  Ginger. 
"Is  there  any  name  on  the  collar,  Peter?" 

Peter  shook  his  'ead.  "It's  a  good  collar, 
though,"  he  ses.  "I  wonder  whether  he's 
been  and  lost  'imself?" 

57 


The  Understudy 

Old  Sam,  wot  was  always  on  the  look-out 
for  money,  put  his  beer  down  and  wiped  'is 
mouth.  "There  might  be  a  reward  out  for 
Jim,"  he  ses.  "I  think  I'll  take  care  of  'im 
for  a  day  or  two,  in  case." 

"We'll  all  take  care  of  'im,"  ses  Ginger; 
"and  if  there's  a  reward  we'll  go  shares.  Mind 
that!" 

"I  found  'im,"  ses  Sam,  very  disagreeable. 
"He  came  up  to  me  as  if  he'd  known  me  all 
'is  life." 

9 

"No,"  ses  Ginger.  "Don't  you  flatter 
yourself.  He  came  up  to  you  because  he  didn't 
know  you,  Sam." 

"If  he  'ad,  he'd  ha'  bit  your  'and,"  ses 
Peter  Russet. 

"Instead  o'  washing  it,"  ses  Ginger. 

"Go  on!"  ses  Sam,  'olding  his  breath  with 
passion.  "Go  on!" 

Peter  opened  'is  mouth,  but  just  then 
another  man  came  into  the  bar,  and,  arter 
ordering  'is  drink,  turned  round  and  patted 
the  dog's  'ead. 

58 


The  Understudy 

"That's  a  good  dog;  'ow  old  is  he?"  he 
ses  to  Ginger. 

"Two  years  last  April,"  ses  Ginger,  without 
moving  a  eyelid. 

"Fifth  of  April,"  ses  old  Sam,  very  quick 
and  fierce. 

"At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  ses  Peter. 

The  man  took  up  'is  beer  and  looked  at  'em; 
then  'e  took  a  drink  and  looked  at  'em  again. 
Arter  which  he  'ad  another  look  at  the  dog. 

"I  could  see  'e  was  very  valuable,"  he  ses. 
"I  see  that  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  'im. 
Mind  you  don't  get  'im  stole." 

He  finished  up  'is  beer  and  went  out;  and 
he  'ad  'ardly  gone  afore  Ginger  took  a  piece 
o'  thick  string  out  of  'is  pocket  and  fastened  it 
to  the  dog's  collar. 

"Make  yourself  at  'ome,  Ginger,"  ses  Sam, 
very  nasty. 

"I'm  going  to,"  ses  Ginger.  "That  chap 
knows  something  about  dogs,  and,  if  we  can't 
get  a  reward  for  'im,  p'r'aps  we  can  sell  'im." 

They  'ad  another  arf-pint  each,  and  then, 
59 


The  Understudy 

Ginger  taking  'old  of  the  string,  they  went 
out  into  the  street. 

"Nine  o'clock,"  ses  Peter.  "It's  no  good 
going  'ome  yet,  Ginger." 

"We  can  'ave  a  glass  or  two  on  the  way," 
ses  Ginger;  "but  I  sha'n't  feel  comfortable  in 
my  mind  till  we've  got  the  dog  safe  'ome. 
P'r'aps  the  people  wot  'ave  lost  it  are  looking 
for  it  now." 

They  'ad  another  drink  farther  on,  and  a 
man  in  the  bar  took  such  a  fancy  to  the  dog 
that  'e  offered  Ginger  five  shillings  for  it  and 
drinks  round. 

"That  shows  'ow  valuable  it  is,"  ses  Peter 
Russet  when  they  got  outside.  "Hold  that 
string  tight,  Ginger.  Wot's  the  matter?" 

"He  won't  come,"  ses  Ginger,  tugging  at 
the  string.  "Come  on,  old  chap!  Good 
dog!  Come  on !" 

He  stood  there  pulling  at  the  dog,  wot  was 

sitting  down  and  being  dragged  along  on  its 

stummick.     He  didn't  know  its  name,  but  'e 

called  it  a  few  things  that  seemed  to  ease  'is 

60 


The  Understudy 

mind,  and  then  he  'anded  over  the  string  to 
Sam,  wot  'ad  been  asking  for  it,  and  told  'im 
to  see  wot  he  could  do, 

"We  shall  'ave  a  crowd  round  us  in  a 
minute,"  ses  Peter.  "Mind  you  don't  bust  a 
blood-vessel,  Sam." 

"And  be  locked  up  for  stealing  it,  pYaps," 
ses  Ginger.  "Better  let  it  go,  Sam." 

"Wot,  arter  refusing  five  bob  for  it?"  ses 
Sam.  "Talk  sense,  Ginger,  and  give  it  a 
shove  be'ind." 

Ginger  gave  it  a  shove,  but  it  was  no  good. 
There  was  three  or  four  people  coming  along 
the  road,  and  Sam  made  up  'is  mind  in  art 
instant,  and  'eld  up  his  'and  to  a  cab  that  was 
passing. 

It  took  the  three  of  'em  to  get  the  dog  into 
the  cab,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  in  the  cabman 
told  'em  to  take  it  out  agin.  They  argufied 
with  'im  till  their  tongues  ached,  and  at  last, 
arter  paying  'im  four  shillings  and  sixpence 
afore  they  started,  he  climbed  up  on  the  box 
and  drove  off. 

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The  Understudy 

The  door  was  open  when  they  got  to  their 
lodgings,  but  they  'ad  to  be  careful  because 
o'  the  landlady.  It  took  the  three  of  'em  to 
pull  and  push  that  dog  upstairs,  and  Ginger 
took  a  dislike  to  dogs  that  'e  never  really  got 
over.  They  got  'im  in  the  bedroom  at  last, 
and,  arter  they  'ad  given  'im  a  drink  o'  water 
out  o'  the  wash-hand  basin,  Ginger  and  Peter 
started  to  find  fault  with  Sam  Small. 

"I  know  wot  I'm  about,"  ses  Sam;  "but, 
o'  course,  if  you  don't  want  your  share,  say  so. 
Wot?" 

"Talk  sense!"  ses  Ginger.  "We  paid  our 
share  o'  the  cab,  didn't  we  ?  And  more  fools 
us." 

"There  won't  be  no  share,"  ses  Peter 
<  Russet  j  "but  if  there  is,  we're  going  to  'ave  it." 

They  undressed  themselves  and  got  into 
bed,  and  Ginger  'adn't  been  in  his  five  minutes 
afore  the  dog  started  to  get  in  with  'im. 
When  Ginger  pushed  'im  off  'e  seemed  to 
think  he  was  having  a  game  with  'im,  and, 
arter  pretending  to  bite  'im  in  play,  he  took 
62 


The  Understudy 

the  end  of  the  counterpane  in  'is  mouth  and 
tried  to  drag  it  off. 

"Why  don't  you  get  to  sleep,  Ginger?" 
ses  Sam,  who  was  just  dropping  off.  "'Ave 
a  game  with  'im  in  the  morning." 

Ginger  gave  the  dog  a  punch  in  the  chest, 
and,  arter  saying  a  few  o'  the  things  he'd  like 
to  do  to  Sam  Small,  he  cuddled  down  in  'is 
bed  and  they  all  went  off  to  sleep.  All  but 
the  dog,  that  is.  He  seemed  uneasy  in  'is 
mind,  and  if  'e  woke  'em  up  once  by  standing 
on  his  'ind-legs  and  putting  his  fore-paws  on 
their  chest  to  see  if  they  was  still  alive,  he 
did  arf-a-dozen  times. 

He  dropped  off  to  sleep  at  last,  scratching 
'imself,  but  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing Ginger  woke  up  with  a  'orrible  start  and 
sat  up  in  bed  shivering.  Sam  and  Peter 
woke  up,  too,  and,  raising  themselves  in  bed, 
looked  at  the  dog,  wot  was  sitting  on  its  tail, 
with  its  'ead  back,  moaning  fit  to  break  its  'art. 

"Wot's  the  matter?"  ses  old  Sam,  in  % 
shaky  voice.  "Stop  it!  Stop  it,  d'ye  hear!" 


The  Understudy 

"P'r'aps  it's  dying,"  ses  Ginger,  as  the  dog 
let  off  a  'owl  like  a  steamer  coming  up  the 
river.  "Stop  it,  you  brute!" 

"He'll  wake  the  'ouse  up  in  a  minute,"  ses 
Peter.  "Take  'im  downstairs  and  kick  'im 
into  the  street,  Sam." 

"Take  'im  yourself,"  ses  Sam.  " Hsh ! 
Somebody's  coming  upstairs.  Poor  old  doggie. 
Come  along,  then.  Come  along." 

The  dog  left  off  his  'owling,  and  went  over 
and  licked  'im  just  as  the  landlady  and  one  or 
two  more  came  to  the  door  and  called  out  to 
know  wot  they  meant  by  it. 

"It's  all  right,  missis,"  ses  Sam.  "It's  on'y 
pore  Ginger.  You  keep  quiet,"  he  ses  in  a 
whisper,  turning  to  Ginger. 

"Wot's  he  making  that  row  about?"  ses 
the  landlady.  "He  made  my  blood  run  cold." 

"He's  got  a  touch  o'  toothache,"  ses  Sam. 
"Never  mind,  Ginger,"  'e  ses  in  a  hurry,  as 
the  dog  let  off  another  'owl;  "try  and  bear 


it." 


'He's  a  coward,  that's  wot  'e  is,"  ses  the 

64 


The  Understudy 

landlady,  very  fierce.  "Why,  a  child  o*  five 
wouldn't  make  such  a  fuss." 

"Sounds  more  like  a  dog  than  a  'uman 
being,"  ses  another  voice.  "You  come  out- 
side, Ginger,  and  I'll  give  you  something  to 
cry  for." 

They  waited  a  minute  or  two,  and  then, 
everything  being  quiet,  they  went  back  to 
bed,  while  old  Sam  talked  to  Ginger  about 
wot  'e  called  'is  "presence  o'  mind,"  and  Ginger 
talked  to  'im  about  wot  he'd  do  to  'im  if  'e 
wasn't  a  fat  old  man  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave. 

They  was  all  in  a  better  temper  when  they 
woke  up  in  the  morning,  and  while  Sam  was 
washing  they  talked  about  wot  they  was  to 
do  with  the  dog. 

"We  can't  lead  'im  about  all  day,"  ses 
Ginger;  "and  if  we  let  'im  off  the  string  he'll 
go  off  'ome." 

"He  don't  know  where  his  'ome  is,"  ses 
Sam,  very  severe;  "but  he  might  run  away, 
and  then  the  pore  thing  might  be  starved  or 

65 


The  Understudy 

else  ill-treated.  I  'ave  'card  o'  boys  tying  tin 
cans  to  their  tails." 

"I've  done  it  myself,"  ses  Gingerr  nodding. 

"Consequently  it's  our  dooty  to  look  arter 
*im,"  ses  Sam. 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  front  door,"  ses 
Peter,  "and  when  I  whistle,  bring  him 
down." 

Ginger  stuck  his  'ead  out  o'  the  window, 
and  by  and  by,  when  Peter  whistled,  him  and 
Sam  took  the  dog  downstairs  and  out  into  the 
street. 

"So  far  so  good,"  ses  Sam;  "now,  wot 
about  brekfuss  ? " 

They  'ad  their  brekfuss  in  their  usual  coffee- 
shop,  and  the  dog  took  bits  from  all  of  them. 
Unfortunately,  'e  wasn't  used  to  haddick  bones, 
and  arter  two  of  the  customers  'ad  gorn  out 
and  two  more  'ad  complained  to  the  landlord, 
they  'ad  to  leave  their  brekfusses  and  take'  im 
outside  for  a  breath  o'  fresh  air. 

"Now,  wot  are  we  going  to  do?"  ses 
Ginger.  "I'm  beginning  to  be  sick  of  the 

66 


The  Understudy 

sight  of  'im.  'Ave  we  got  to  lead  'im  about 
all  day  on  a  bit  o'  string  ?" 

"Let's  take  'im  round  the  corner  and  lose 
'im,"  ses  Peter  Russet. 

"You  give  me  'old  o'  that  string,"  ses  Sam. 
"If  you  don't  want  shares,  that's  all  right. 
If  I'm  going  to  look  arter  'im  I'll  'ave  it 
all." 

That  made  Ginger  and  Peter  look  at  each 
other.  Direckly  Sam  began  to  talk  about 
money  they  began  to  think  they  might  be 
losing  something. 

"And  wot  about  'aving  'im  in  our  bed- 
room and  keeping  us  awake  all  night?"  ses 
Peter. 

"And  putting  it  on  to  me  with  the  tooth- 
ache," ses  Ginger.  "No;  you  can  look  arter 
'im,  Sam,  while  me  and  Peter  goes  off  and 
enjoys  ourselves;  and  if  you  get  anything  we 
go  shares,  mind." 

"All  right,"  ses  Sam,  turning  away  with  the 
dog. 

"And  suppose  Sam  gets  a  reward  or  sells 

67 


The  Understudy 

it,  and  then  tells  us  that  it  ran  away  and  'e 
lost  it  ? "  ses  Peter. 

"O'  course;  I  never  thought  o'  that,"  ses 
Ginger.  "You've  got  your  'ead  on  straight, 
Peter." 

"I  see  'im  smile,  that's  why,"  ses  Peter 
Russet. 

"You're  a  liar,"  ses  Sam. 

"We'll  stick  together,"  ses  Ginger.  "Least- 
ways, one  of  us'll  keep  with  you,  Sam." 

They  settled  it  that  way  at  last,  and  while 
Ginger  went  for  a  walk  down  round  about 
where  they  'ad  found  the  dog,  Sam  Small  and 
Peter  waited  for  him  in  a  little  public-'ouse 
down  Limehouse  way.  Their  idea  was  that 
there  would  be  bills  up,  and  when  Ginger 
came  back  and  said  there  wasn't,  they  'ad  a 
lot  to  say  about  people  wot  wasn't  fit  to  'ave 
dogs  because  they  didn't  love  'em. 

They  'ad  a  miserable  day.  When  the  dog 
g*t  sick  o'  sitting  in  a  pub  'e  made  such  a 
noise  they  'ad  to  take  'im  out;  and  when  'e 
got  tired  o'  walking  about  he  sat  down  on  the 

68 


The  Understudy 

pavement  and  they  'ad  to  drag  'im  along  to 
the  nearest  pub  agin.  At  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  Ginger  Dick  was  talking  about  two- 
penn'orth  o'  rat-poison. 

"Wot  are  we  to  do  with  'im  till  twelve 
o'clock  to-night  ? "  ses  Peter. 

"And  s'pose  we  can't  smuggle  'im  into  the 
'ouse  agin?"  ses  Ginger.  "Or  suppose  he 
makes  that  noise  agin  in  the  night?" 

They  'ad  a  pint  each  to  'elp  them  to  think 
wot  was  to  be  done.  And,  arter  a  lot  o* 
talking  and  quarrelling,  they  did  wot  a  lot  of 
other  people  'ave  done  when  they  got  into 
trouble:  they  came  to  me. 

I  'ad  on'y  been  on  dooty  about  arf  an  hour 
when  the  three  of  'em  turned  up  at  the  wharf 
with  the  dog,  and,  arter  saying  'ow  well  I 
looked  and  that  I  seemed  to  get  younger  every 
time  they  saw  me,  they  asked  me  to  take 
charge  of  the  dog  for  'em. 

"It'll  be  company  for  you,"  ses  old  Sam. 
"It  must  be  very  lonely  'ere  of  a  night.  I've 
often  thought  of  it." 

69 


The  Understudy 

"And  of  a  day-time  you  could  take  it  'ome 
and  tie  it  up  in  your  back-yard,"  ses  Ginger. 

I  wouldn't  'ave  anything  to  do  with  it  at 
fust,  but  at  last  I  gave  way.  They  offered  me 
fourpence  a  day  for  its  keep,  and,  as  I  didn't 
want  to  run  any  risk,  I  made  'em  give  me  a 
couple  o'  bob  to  go  on  with. 

They  went  off  as  though  they'd  left  a  load 
o'  care  be'ind  'em,  and  arter  tying  the  dog 
up  to  a  crane  I  went  on  with  my  work.  They 
'adn't  told  me  wot  the  game  was,  but,  from 
one  or  two  things  they'd  let  drop,  I'd  got  a 
pretty  good  idea. 

The  dog  'owled  a  bit  at  fust,  but  he  quieted 
down  arter  a  bit.  He  was  a  nice-looking 
animal,  but  one  dog  is  much  the  same  as 
another  to  me,  and  if  I  'ad  one  ten  years  I 
don't  suppose  I  could  pick  it  out  from  two  or 
three  others. 

I  took  it  off  'ome  with  me  when  I  left  at 
six  o'clock  next  morning,  and  tied  it  up  in 
my  yard.  My  missis  'ad  words  about  it,  of 
course — that's  wot  people  get  married  for— 

70 


The  Understudy 

but  when  she  found  it  woke  me  up  three 
times  she  quieted  down  and  said  wot  a  nice 
coat  it  'ad  got. 

The  three  of  'em  came  round  next  evening 
to  see  it,  and  they  was  so  afraid  of  its  being 
lost  that  when  they  stood  me  a  pint  at  the 
Bull's  Head  we  'ad  to  take  it  with  us.  Ginger 
was  going  to  buy  a  sausage-roll  for  it,  but, 
arter  Sam  'ad  pointed  out  that  they  was  pay- 
ing me  fourpence  a  day  for  its  keep,  he  didn't. 
And  Sam  'ad  the  cheek  to  tell  me  that  it 
liked  a  nice  bit  o'  fried  steak  as  well  as  anything. 

A  lot  o'  people  admired  that  dog.  I 
remember,  on  the  fourth  night  I  think  it  was, 
the  barge  Dauntless  came  alongside,  and  arter 
she  was  made  fast  the  skipper  came  ashore 
and  took  a  little  notice  of  it. 

"Where  did  you  get  'im?"  he  ses. 

I  told  'im  'ow  it  was,  and  he  stood  there 
for  some  time  patting  the  dog  on  the  'ead  and 
whistling  under  'is  breath. 

"It's  much  the  same  size  as  my  dog,"  he 
ses;  "that's  a  black  retriever,  too." 

71 


The  Understudy 

I  ses  "Oh!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  'ave  to  get  rid  of  it," 
he  ses.  "It's  on  the  barge  now.  My  missis 
won't  'ave  it  in  the  'ouse  any  more  cos  it  bit 
the  baby.  And  o'  course  it  was  no  good 
p'inting  out  to  'er  that  it  was  its  first  bite. 
Even  the  law  allows  one  bite,  but  it's  no  good 
talking  about  the  law  to  wimmen." 

"Except  when  it's  on  their  side,"   I  ses. 

He  patted  the  dog's  'ead  agin  and  whistled, 
and  a  big  black  dog  came  up  out  of  the  cabin 
and  sprang  ashore.  It  went  up  and  put  its 
nose  to  Sana's  dog,  and  they  both  growled  like 
thunderstorms. 

"Might  be  brothers,"  ses  the  skipper,  "on'y 
your  dog's  got  a  better  'ead  and  a  better  coat. 
It's  a  good  dog." 

"They're  all  alike  to  me,"  I  ses.  "I 
couldn't  tell  'em  apart,  not  if  you  paid  me." 

The  skipper  stood  there  a  moment,  and 
then  he  ses:  "I  wish  you'd  let  me  see  '«w 
my  dog  looks  in  your  dog's  collar,"  he  ses. 

"Whaffor?"  I  ses. 

72 


The  Understudy 

"On'y  fancy,"  he  ses.     "Oh,  Bill!" 

"Yes,"  I  ses. 

"It  ain't  Christmas,"  he  ses,  taking  my 
arm  and  walking  up  and  down  a  hit,  "but  it 
will  be  soon,  and  then  I  mightn't  see  you. 
You've  done  me  one  or  two  good  turns,  and 
I  should  like  to  make  you  a  Christmas-box 
of  three  'arf-dollars." 

I  let  'im  give  'em  to  me,  and  then,  just  to 
please  'im,  I  let  'im  try  the  collar  on  'is  dog, 
while  I  swept  up  a  bit. 

"It  looked  beautiful  on  'im,"  he  ses,  when 
I'd  finished;  "but  I've  put  it  back  agin. 
Come  on,  Bruno.  Good-night,  Bill." 

He  got  'is  dog  on  the  barge  agin  arter  a  bit 
o'  trouble,  and  arter  making  sure  that  my 
dog  'ad  got  its  own  collar  on  I  went  on  with 
my  work. 

The  dog  didn't  seem  to  be  quite  'imself 
next  day,  and  he  was  so  fierce  in  the  yard  that 
my  missis  was  afraid  to  go  near  'im.  I  was 
going  to  ask  the  skipper  about  it,  as  'e  seemed 
to  know  more  about  dogs  than  I  did,  but 

73 


The  Understudy 

when    I    got    to    the    wharf   the    barge    had 
sailed. 

It  was  just  getting  dark  when  there  came 
a  ring  at  the  gate-bell,  and  afore  I  could 
answer  it  arf-a-dozen  more,  as  fast  as  the 
bell  could  go.  And  when  I  opened  the  wicket 
Sam  Small  and  Ginger  and  Peter  Russet  all 
tried  to  get  in  at  once. 

"Where's  the  dog?"  ses  Sam. 

"Tied  up,"  I  ses.  "Wot's  the  matter? 
'Ave  you  all  gorn  mad  ?" 

They  didn't  answer  me.  They  ran  on  to 
the  jetty,  and  afore  I  could  turn  round 
a'most  they  'ad  got  the  dog  loose  and  was 
dragging  it  towards  me,  smiling  all  over  their 
faces. 

"Reward,"  ses  Ginger,  as  I  caught  'old  of 
'im  by  the  coat.  "Five  pounds — landlord  of 
a  pub — at  Bow — come  on,  Sam!" 

"Why  don't  you  keep  your  mouth  shut, 
Ginger  ? "  ses  Sam. 

"Five  pounds!"  I  ses.  "Five  pounds! 
Hurrah!" 

74 


The  Understudy 

"Wot  are  you  hurraying  about?"  ses  Sam, 
very  short. 

"Why,"  I  ses,  "I  s'pose Here,  arf  a 

moment !" 

"  Can't  stop,"  ses  Sam,  going  arter  the 
others. 

I  watched  'em  up  the  road,  and  then  I 
locked  the  gate  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
wharf  thinking  wot  a  funny  thing  money  is, 
and  'ow  it  alters  people's  natures.  And  arter 
all,  I  thought  that  three  arf-dollars  earned 
honest  was  better  than  a  reward  for  hiding 
another  man's  dog. 

I  finished  tidying  up,  and  at  nine  o'clock 
I  went  into  the  office  for  a  quiet  smoke.  I 
couldn't  'elp  wondering  'ow  them  three  'ad 
got  on,  and  just  as  I  was  thinking  about  it 
there  came  the  worst  ringing  at  the  gate-bell 
I  'ave  ever  'card  in  my  life,  and  the  noise  of 
heavy  boots  kicking  the  gate.  It  was  so  violent 
I  'ardly  liked  to  go  at  fust,  thinking  it  might 
be  bad  news,  but  I  opened  it  at  last,  and  in 
bust  Sam  Small,  with  Ginger  and  Peter. 
75 


The  Understudy 

For  five  minutes  they  all  talked  at  once,  with 
their  nasty  fists  'eld  under  my  nose.  I  couldn't 
make  'ead  or  tail  of  it  at  fust,  and  then  I  found 
as  'ow  they  'ad  got  the  dog  back  with  them, 
and  that  the  landlord  'ad  said  'e  wasn't  the 
one. 

"But  'e  said  as  he  thought  the  collar  was 
his,"  ses  Sam.  '  'Ow  do  you  account  for 
that?" 

"PYaps  he  made  a  mistake,"  I  ses;  "or 
pYaps  he  thought  you'd  turn  the  dog  adrift 
and  he'd  get  it  back  for  nothing.  You  know 
wot  landlords  are.  Try  'im  agin." 

"I'd  pretty  well  swear  he  ain't  the  same 
dog,"  ses  Peter  Russet,  looking  in  a  puzzled 
way  at  Sam  and  Ginger. 

"You  take  'im  back  to-morrow  night,"  I 
ses.  "It's  a  nice  walk  to  Bow.  And  then 
come  back  and  beg  my  pardon.  I  want  to 
*ave  a  word  with  this  policeman  here.  Good- 
night." 


76 


THE  WEAKER  VESSEL 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

MR.  GRIBBLE  sat  in  his  small  front 
parlour  in  a  state  of  angry  amazement. 
It  was  half-past  six  and  there  was  no  Mrs. 
Gribble;  worse  still,  there  was  no  tea.  It  was 
a  state  01  things  that  had  only  happened  once 
before.  That  was  three  weeks  after  marriage, 
and  on  that  occasion  Mr.  Gribble  had  put  his 
foot  down  with  a  bang  that  had  echoed  down 
the  corridors  of  thirty  years. 

The  fire  in  the  little  kitchen  was  out,  and 
the  untidy  remains  of  Mrs.  Gribbie's  midday 
meal  still  disgraced  the  table.  More  and  more 
dazed,  the  indignant  husband  could  only 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  gone  out 
and  been  run  over.  Other  things  might 
possibly  account  for  her  behaviour;  that  was 
the  only  one  that  would  excuse  it. 

79 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  a  key  in  the  front  door,  and  a  second 
later  a  small,  anxious  figure  entered  the  room 
and,  leaning  against  the  table,  strove  to  get 
its  breath.  The  process  was  not  helped  by 
the  alarming  distension  of  Mr.  Cribble's 
figure. 

"I — I  got  home — quick  as  I  could — Henry," 
said  Mrs.  Gribble,  panting. 

"Where  is  my  tea  ?"  demanded  her  husband. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  it?  The  fire's  out 
and  the  kitchen  is  just  as  you  left  it." 

"I — I've  been  to  a  lawyer's,  Henry,"  said 
Mrs.  Gribble,  "and  I  had  to  wait." 

"Lawyer's?"  repeated  her  husband. 

"I  got  a  letter  this  afternoon  telling  me 
to  call.  Poor  Uncle  George,  that  went  to 
America,  is  gone." 

"That  is  no  excuse  for  neglecting  me," 
said  Mr.  Gribble.  "Of  course  people  die 
when  they  are  old.  Is  that  the  one  that  got 
on  and  made  money?" 

His  wife,  apparently  struggling  to  repress 
80 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

a  little  excitement,  nodded.  "He — he's  left 
me  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  for  life,  Henry," 
she  said,  dabbing  at  her  pale  blue  eyes  with 
a  handkerchief.  "They're  going  to  pay  it 
monthly;  sixteen  pounds  thirteen  shillings 
and  fourpence  a  month.  That's  how  he 
left  it." 

"Two  hund "  began  Mr.  Gribble,  for- 
getting himself.  "  Two  hun Go  and  get 

my  tea!  If  you  think  you're  going  to  give 
yourself  airs  because  your  uncle's  left  you 
money,  you  won't  do  it  in  my  house." 

He  took  a  chair  by  the  window,  and,  while 
his  wife  busied  herself  in  the  kitchen,  sat 
gazing  in  blank  delight  at  the  little  street. 
Two  hundred  a  year!  It  was  all  he  could 
do  to  resume  his  wonted  expression  as  his 
wife  re-entered  the  room  and  began  to  lay 
the  table.  His  manner,  however,  when  she 
let  a  cup  and  saucer  slip  from  her  trembling 
fingers  to  smash  on  the  floor  left  nothing  to 
be  desired. 

"It's  nice  to  have  money  come  to  us  in  our 
Si 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

old  age,"  said  Mrs.  Gribble,  timidly,  as  they 
sat  at  tea.  "It  takes  a  load  off  my 
mind." 

"Old  age!"  said  her  husband,  disagreeably. 
"What  d'ye  mean  by  old  age  ?  I'm  fifty-two, 
and  feel  as  young  as  ever  I  did." 

"You  look  as  young  as  ever  you  did,"  said 
the  docile  Mrs.  Gribble.  "I  can't  see  no 
change  in  you.  At  least,  not  to  speak  of." 

"Not  so  much  talk,"  said  her  husband. 
"When  I  want  your  opinion  of  my  looks  I'll 
ask  you  for  it.  When  do  you  start  getting 
this  money  ?" 

"Tuesday  week;  first  of  May,"  replied  his 
wife.  "The  lawyers  are  going  to  send  it  by 
registered  letter." 

Mr.  Gribble  grunted. 

"I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  the  house  for 
some  things,"  said  his  wife,  looking  round. 
"We've  been  here  a  good  many  years  now, 
Henry." 

"Leave  the  house!"  repeated  Mr.  Gribble, 
putting  down  his  tea-cup  and  staring  at  her. 

82 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

"Leave   the   house!     What    are   you   talking 
about?" 

"But  we  can't  stay  here,  Henry,"  faltered 
Mrs.  Gribble.  "Not  with  all  that  money. 
They  are  building  some  beautiful  houses  in 
Charlton  Grove  now — bathroom,  tiled  hearths, 
and  beautiful  stained  glass  in  the  front 
door;  and  all  for  twenty-eight  pounds  a 
year." 

"Wonderful!"  said  the  other,  with  a 
mocking  glint  in  his  eye. 

"And  iron  palings  to  the  front  garden, 
painted  chocolate-colour  picked  out  with  blue," 
continued  his  wife,  eyeirtg  him  wistfully. 

Mr.  Gribble  struck  the  table  a  blow  with 
his  fist.  "This  house  is  good  enough  for  me," 
he  roared;  "and  what's  good  enough  for  me 
is  good  enough  for  you.  You  want  to  waste 
money  on  show;  that's  what  you  want. 
Stained  glass  and  bow-windows !  You  want 
a  bow-window  to  loll  about  in,  do  you  ? 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  you  don't  want  a  servant- 
gal  to  do  the  work." 

83 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

Mrs.  Gribble  flushed  guiltily,  and  caught 
her  breath. 

"We're  going  to  live  as  we've  always  lived," 
pursued  Mr.  Gribble.  "Money  ain't  going 
to  spoil  me.  I  ain't  going  to  put  on  no  side 
just  because  I've  come  in  for  a  little  bit.  If 
you  had  your  way  we  should  end  up  in  the 
workhouse." 

He  filled  his  pipe  and  smoked  thoughtfully, 
while  Mrs.  Gribble  cleared  away  the  tea- 
things  and  washed  up.  Pictures,  good  to 
look  upon,  formed  in  the  smoke — pictures  of 
a  hale,  hearty  man  walking  along  the  primrose 
path  arm-in-arm  with  two  hundred  a  year; 
of  the  mahogany  and  plush  of  the  saloon  bar 
at  the  Grafton  Arms;  of  Sunday  jaunts,  and 
the  Oval  on  summer  afternoons. 

He  ate  his  breakfast  slowly  on  the  first  of 
the  month,  and,  the  meal  finished,  took  a 
seat  in  the  window  with  his  pipe  and  waited 
for  the  postman.  Mrs.  Cribble's  timid  re- 
minders concerning  the  flight  of  time  and 
consequent  fines  for  lateness  at  work  fell  on 

84 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

deaf  ears.     He  jumped  up  suddenly  and  met 
the  postman  at  the  door. 

"Has  it  come?"  inquired  Mrs.  Cribble, 
extending  her  hand. 

By  way  of  reply  her  husband  tore  open  the 
envelope  and,  handing  her  the  covering  letter, 
counted  the  notes  and  coin  and  placed  them 
slowly  in  his  pockets.  Then,  as  Mrs.  Gribble 
looked  at  him,  he  looked  at  the  clock,  and, 
snatching  up  his  hat,  set  off  down  the 
road. 

He  was  late  home  that  evening,  and  his 
manner  forbade  conversation.  Mrs.  Gribble, 
with  the  bereaved  air  of  one  who  has  sustained 
an  irremediable  loss,  sighed  fitfully,  and  once 
applied  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"That's  no  good,"  said  her  husband  at 
last;  "that  won't  bring  him  back." 

"Bring  who  back?"  inquired  Mrs.  Gribble, 
in  genuine  surprise. 

"Why,  your  Uncle  George,"  said  Mr. 
Gribble.  "That's  what  you're  turning  on 
the  water-cart  for,  ain't  it  ? " 

85 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Gribble,  trying  to  speak  bravely.  "I  was 
thinking  of- " 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be,"  interrupted  her 
husband.  "He  wasn't  my  uncle,  poor  chap, 
but  I've  been  thinking  of  him,  off  and  on,  all 
day.  That  bloater-paste  you  are  eating  now 
came  from  his  kindness.  I  brought  it  home 
as  a  treat." 

"I  was  thinking  of  my  clothes,"  said  Mrs. 
Gribble,  clenching  her  hands  together  under 
the  table.  "When  I  found  I  had  come  in 
for  that  money,  the  first  thing  I  thought  was 
that  I  should  be  able  to  have  a  decent  dress. 
My  old  ones  are  quite  worn  out,  and  as  for 
my  hat  and  jacket " 

"Go  on,"  said  her  husband,  fiercely.  "Go 
on.  That's  just  what  I  said:  trust  you  with 
money,  and  we  should  be  poorer  than  ever." 

"I'm  ashamed  to  be  seen  out,"  said  Mrs. 
Gribble. 

"A  woman's  place  is  the  home,"  said  Mr. 
Gribble;  "and  so  long  as  I'm  satisfied  with 

86 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

your  appearance  nobody  else  matters.  So  long 
as  I  am  pleased,  that's  everything.  What  do 
you  want  to  go  dressing  yourself  up  for  ? 
Nothing  looks  worse  than  an  over-dressed 
woman." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  with  all  that 
money,  then?"  inquired  Mrs.  Gribble,  in 
trembling  tones. 

"That'll  do,"  said  Mr.  Gribble,  decidedly. 
"That'll  do.  One  o'  these  days  you'll  go  too 
far.  You  start  throwing  that  money  in  my 
teeth  and  see  what  happens.  I've  done  my 
best  for  you  all  these  years,  and  there's  no 
reason  to  suppose  I  sha'n't  go  on  doing  so. 
What  did  you  say  ?  What !" 

Mrs.  Gribble  turned  to  him  a  face  rendered 
ghastly  by  terror.  "I — I  said — it  was  my 
money,"  she  stammered. 

Mr.  Gribble  rose,  and  stood  for  a  full 
minute  regarding  her.  Then,  kicking  a  chair 
out  of  his  way,  he  took  his  hat  from  its  peg  in 
the  passage  and,  with  a  bang  of  the  street-door 
that  sent  a  current  of  fresh,  sweet  air  circulating 

87 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

through  the  house,  strode  off  to  the  Grafton 
Arms. 

It  was  past  eleven  when  he  returned,  but 
even  the  spectacle  of  his  wife  laboriously  darn- 
ing her  old  dress  failed  to  reduce  his  good- 
humour  in  the  slightest  degree.  In  a  frivolous 
mood  he  even  took  a  feather  from  the  dis- 
membered hat  on  the  table  and  stuck  it  in  his 
hair.  He  took  the  stump  of  a  strong  cigar 
from  his  lips  and,  exhaling  a  final  cloud  of 
smoke,  tossed  it  into  the  fireplace. 

"Uncle  George  dead,"  he  said,  at  last, 
shaking  his  head.  "Hadn't  pleasure  acquain- 
tance, but  good  man.  Good  man." 

He  shook  his  head  again  and  gazed  mistily 
at  his  wife. 

"He  was  a  teetotaller,"  she  remarked, 
casually. 

"He  was  tee-toller,"  repeated  Mr.  Gribble, 
regarding  her  equably.  "Good  man.  Uncle 
George  dead — tee-toller." 

Mrs.  Gribble  gathered  up  her  work  and 
began  to  put  it  away. 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

"Bed-time,"  said  Mr.  Gribble,  and  led  the 
way  upstairs,  singing. 

His  good-humour  had  evaporated  by  the 
morning,  and,  having  made  a  light  breakfast 
of  five  cups  of  tea,  he  went  off,  with  lagging 
steps,  to  work.  It  was  a  beautiful  spring 
morning,  and  the  idea  of  a  man  with  two 
hundred  a  year  and  a  headache  going  off  to  a 
warehouse  instead  of  a  day's  outing  seemed 
to  border  upon  the  absurd.  What  use  was 
money  without  freedom  ?  His  toil  was  sweet- 
ened that  day  by  the  knowledge  that  he  could 
drop  it  any  time  he  liked  and  walk  out,  a  free 
man,  into  the  sunlight. 

By  the  end  of  a  week  his  mind  was  made 
up.  Each  day  that  passed  made  his  hurried 
uprising  and  scrambled  breakfast  more  and 
more  irksome;  and  on  Monday  morning,  with 
hands  in  trouser-pockets  and  legs  stretched 
out,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  received 
his  wife's  alarming  intimations  as  to  the  flight 
of  time  with  a  superior  and  sphinx-like  smile. 

"It's  too  fine  to  go  to  work  to-day,"  he 
89 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

said,  lazily.     "Come  to  that,  any  day  is  too 
fine  to  waste  at  work." 

Mrs.  Gribble  sat  gasping  at  him. 

"So  on  Saturday  I  gave  'em  a  week's 
notice,"  continued  her  husband,  "and  after 
Potts  and  Co.  had  listened  while  I  told  'em 
what  I  thought  of  'em,  they  said  they'd  do 
without  the  week's  notice." 

"You've  never  given  up  your  job?"  said 
Mrs.  Gribble. 

"I  spoke  to  old  Potts  as  one  gentleman  of 
independent  means  to  another,"  said  Mr. 
Gribble,  smiling.  "Thirty-five  bob  a  week 
after  twenty  years'  service !  And  he  had  the 
cheek  to  tell  me  I  wasn't  worth  that.  When 
I  told  him  what  he  was  worth  he  talked  about 
sending  for  the  police.  What  are  you  looking 
like  that  for?  I've  worked  hard  for  you  for 
thirty  years,  and  I've  had  enough  of  it.  Now 
it's  your  turn." 

"You'd  find  it  hard  to  get  another  place 
at  your  age,"  said  his  wife;  "especially  if  they 
wouldn't  give  you  a  good  character." 

90 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

"Place!"  said  the  other,  staring.  "Place! 
I  tell  you  I've  done  with  work.  For  a  man  o* 
my  means  to  go  on  working  for  thirty-five  bob 
a  week  is  ridiculous." 

"But  suppose  anything  happened  to  me," 
said  his  wife,  in  a  troubled  voice. 

"That's  not  very  likely,"  said  Mr.  Gribble. 
"You're  tough  enough.  And  if  it  did  your 
money  would  come  to  me." 

Mrs.  Gribble  shook  her  head. 

"WHAT?"  roared  her  husband,  jumping  up. 

"I've  only  got  it  for  life,  Henry,  as  I  told 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Gribble,  in  alarm.  "I  thought 
you  knew  it  would  stop  when  I  died." 

"And  what's  to  become  of  me  if  anything 
happens  to  you,  then?"  demanded  the  dis- 
mayed Mr.  Gribble.  "What  am  I  to  do?" 

Mrs.  Gribble  put  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes. 

"And  don't  start  weakening  your  constitu- 
tion by  crying,"  shouted  the  incensed  husband. 
"What  are  you  mumbling?" 

"I    sa — sa — said,    let's    hope — you'll    go — 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

first,"  sobbed  his  wife.  "Then  it  will  be  all 
right." 

Mr.  Gribble  opened  his  mouth,  and  then, 
realizing  the  inadequacy  of  the  English 
language  for  moments  of  stress,  closed  it 
again.  He  broke  his  silence  at  last  in  favour 
of  Uncle  George. 

"Mind  you,"  he  said,  concluding  a  perora- 
tion which  his  wife  listened  to  with  her  fingers 
in  her  ears — "mind  you,  I  reckon  I've  been 
absolutely  done  by  you  and  your  precious 
Uncle  George.  I've  given  up  a  good  situation, 
and  now,  any  time  you  fancy  to  go  off  the 
hooks,  I'm  to  be  turned  into  the  street." 

"I'll  try  and  live,  for  your  sake,  Henry," 
said  his  wife. 

"Think  of  my  worry  every  time  you  are  ill," 
pursued  the  indignant  Mr.  Gribble. 

Mrs.  Gribble  sighed,  and  her  husband,  after 
a  few  further  remarks  concerning  Uncle  George, 
his  past  and  his  future,  announced  his  intention 
of  going  to  the  lawyers  and  seeing  whether 
anything  could  be  done.  He  came  back  in  a 
92 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

state  of  voiceless  gloom,  and  spent  the  rest  of 
a  beautiful  day  indoors,  smoking  a  pipe  which 
had  lost  much  of  its  flavour,  and  regarding 
with  a  critical  and  anxious  eye  the  small,  weedy 
figure  of  his  wife  as  she  went  about  her  work. 

The  second  month's  payment  went  into 
his  pocket  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  on  this 
occasion  Mrs.  Gribble  made  no  requests  for 
new  clothes  or  change  of  residence.  A  little 
nervous  cough  was  her  sole  comment. 

"Got  a  cold?"  inquired  her  husband, 
starting. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  his  wife,  and, 
surprised  and  touched  at  this  unusual  display 
of  interest,  coughed  again. 

"Is  it  your  throat  or  your  chest?"  he 
inquired,  gruffly. 

Mrs.  Gribble  coughed  again  to  see.  After 
five  coughs  she  said  she  thought  it  was  her 
chest. 

"You'd  better  not  go  out  o'  doors  to-day, 
then,"  said  Mr.  Gribble.  "Don't  stand  about 
in  draughts;  and  I'll  fetch  you  in  a  bottle  of 

93 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

cough  mixture  when  I  go  out.  What  about 
a  lay-down  on  the  sofa  ? " 

His  wife  thanked  him,  and,  reaching  the 
sofa,  watched  with  half-closed  eyes  as  he 
cleared  the  breakfast-table.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  done  such  a  thing  in  his  life,  and 
a  little  honest  pride  in  the  possession  of  such  a 
cough  would  not  be  denied.  Dim  possibilities 
of  its  vast  usefulness  suddenly  occurred  to 
her. 

She  took  the  cough  mixture  for  a  week,  by 
which  time  other  symptoms,  extremely  dis- 
quieting to  an  ease-loving  man,  had  manifested 
themselves.  Going  upstairs  deprived  her  of 
breath;  carrying  a  loaded  tea-tray  produced 
a  long  and  alarming  stitch  in  the  side.  The 
last  time  she  ever  filled  the  coal-scuttle  she 
was  discovered  sitting  beside  it  on  the  floor 
in  a  state  of  collapse. 

"You'd  better  go  and  see  the  doctor,"  said 
Mr.  Cribble. 

Mrs.  Gribble  went.  Years  before  the  doctor 
had  told  her  that  she  ought  to  take  life  easier, 

94 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

and  she  was  now  able  to  tell  him  she  was 
prepared  to  take  his  advice. 

"And,  you  see,  I  must  take  care  of  myself 
now  for  the  sake  of  my  husband,"  she  said, 
after  she  had  explained  matters. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  doctor. 

"If  anything  happened  to  me "  began 

the  patient. 

"Nothing  shall  happen,"  said  the  other. 
"Stay  in  bed  to-morrow  morning,  and  I'll 
come  round  and  overhaul  you." 

Mrs.  Gribble  hesitated.  "You  might  ex- 
amine me  and  think  I  was  all  right,"  she 
objected;  "and  at  the  same  time  you  wouldn't 
know  how  I  feel." 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel,"  was  the  reply. 
"Good-bye." 

He  came  round  the  following  morning  and, 
following  the  dejected  Mr.  Gribble  upstairs, 
made  a  long  and  thorough  investigation  of 
his  patient. 

"Say  'ninety-nine,' "'  he  said,  adjusting  his 
stethoscope. 

95 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

Mrs.  Gribble  ticked  off  "ninety-nines'* 
until  her  husband's  ears  ached  with  them. 
The  doctor  finished  at  last,  and,  fastening 
his  bag,  stood  with  his  beard  in  his  hand, 
pondering.  He  looked  from  the  little,  white- 
faced  woman  on  the  bed  to  the  bulky  figure 
of  Mr.  Gribble. 

"You  had  better  lie  up  for  a  week,"  he 
said,  decidedly.  "The  rest  will  do  you 
good." 

"Nothing  serious,  I  s'pose?"  said  Mr. 
Gribble,  as  he  led  the  way  downstairs  to  the 
small  parlour. 

"She  ought  to  be  all  right  with  care,"  was 
the  reply. 

"Care?"  repeated  the  other,  distastefully. 
"What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

"She's  not  very  strong,"  said  the  doctor; 
"and  hearts  don't  improve  with  age,  you 
know.  Under  favourable  conditions  she's  good 
for  some  years  yet.  The  great  thing  is  never 
to  thwart  her.  Let  her  have  her  own  way  in 
everything." 

96 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

"Own  way  in  everything?"  repeated  the 
dumbfounded  Mr.  Gribble. 

The  doctor  nodded.  "Never  let  her  worry 
about  anything,"  he  continued;  "and,  above 
all,  never  find  fault  with  her." 

"Not,"  said  Mr.  Gribble,  thickly— "not 
even  for  her  own  good  ? " 

"  Unless  you  want  to  run  the  risk  of  losing 
her." 

Mr.  Gribble  shivered. 

"Let  her  have  an  easy  time,"  said  the 
doctor,  taking  up  his  hat.  "Pamper  her  a 
bit  if  you  like;  it  won't  hurt  her.  Above  all, 
don't  let  that  heart  of  hers  get  excited." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  petrified  Mr. 
Gribble  and  went  off,  grinning  wickedly.  He 
had  few  favourites,  and  Mr.  Gribble  was  not 
one  of  them. 

For  two  days  the  devoted  husband  did  the 
housework  and  waited  on  the  invalid.  Then 
he  wearied,  and,  at  his  wife's  suggestion,  a 
small  girl  was  engaged  as  servant.  She  did 
most  of  the  nursing  as  well,  and,  having  a 

97 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

great  love  for  the  sensational,  took  a  grave 
view  of  her  mistress's  condition. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Mr.  Gribble  when  his  wife 
came  downstairs  again,  and  he  was  cheered 
to  see  that  she  looked  much  better.  His 
satisfaction  was  so  marked  that  it  brought  on 
her  cough  again. 

"It's  this  house,  I  think,"  she  said,  with  a 
resigned  smile.  "It  never  did  agree  with 
me." 

"Well,  you've  lived  in  it  a  good  many 
years,"  said  her  husband,  controlling  himself 
with  difficulty. 

"It's  rather  dark  and  small,"  said  Mrs. 
Gribble.  "Not  but  what  it  is  good  enough 
for  me.  And  I  dare  say  it  will  last  my  time." 

"Nonsense!"  said  her  husband,  gruffly. 
"You  want  to  get  out  a  bit  more.  You've 
got  nothing  to  do  now  we  are  wasting  all  this 
money  on  a  servant.  Why  don't  you  go  out 
for  little  walks  ? " 

Mrs.  Gribble  went,  after  several  promptings, 
and  the  fruit  of  one  of  them  was  handed  by 

98 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

the  postman  to  Mr.  Gribble  a  few  days  after- 
wards. Half-choking  with  wrath  and  astonish- 
ment, he  stood  over  his  trembling  wife  with 
the  first  draper's  bill  he  had  ever  received. 

"One  pound  two  shillings  and  threepence 
three-farthings!"  he  recited.  "It  must  be 
a  mistake.  It  must  be  for  somebody  else." 

Mrs.  Gribble,  with  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
tottered  to  the  sofa  and  lay  there  with  her 
eyes  closed. 

"I  had  to  get  some  dress  material,"  she 
said,  in  a  quavering  voice.  "You  want  me  to 
go  out,  and  I'm  so  shabby  I'm  ashamed  to  be 
seen." 

Mr.  Gribble  made  muffled  noises  in  his 
throat;  then,  afraid  to  trust  himself,  he  went 
into  the  back-yard  and,  taking  a  seat  on  an 
upturned  bucket,  sat  with  his  head  in  his 
hands  peering  into  the  future. 

The  dressmaker's  bill  and  a  bill  for  a  new 

hat  came  after  the  next  monthly  payment;1 

and  a  bill  for  shoes  came  a  week  later.    Hoping 

much  from  the  well-known  curative  effects  of 

99 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

fine  feathers,  he  managed  to  treat  the  affair 
with  dignified  silence.  The  only  time  he 
allowed  full  play  to  his  feelings  Mrs.  Gribble 
took  to  her  bed  for  two  days,  and  the  doctor 
had  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with  him  on  the 
doorstep. 

It  was  a  matter  of  great  annoyance  to  him 
that  his  wife  still  continued  to  attribute  her 
ill-health  to  the  smallness  and  darkness  of  the 
house;  and  the  fact  that  there  were  only  two 
of  the  houses  in  Charlton  Grove  left  caused  a 
marked  depression  of  spirits.  It  was  clear  that 
she  was  fretting.  The  small  servant  went 
further,  and  said  that  she  was  fading  away. 

They  moved  at  the  September  quarter,  and 
a  slight,  but  temporary,  improvement  in  Mrs. 
Cribble's  health  took  place.  Her  cheeks  flushed 
and  her  eyes  sparkled  over  new  curtains  and 
new  linoleum.  The  tiled  hearths,  and  stained 
glass  in  the  front  door  filled  her  with  a  deep 
and  solemn  thankfulness.  The  only  thing  that 
disturbed  her  was  the  fact  that  Mr.  Gribble, 
to  avoid  wasting  money  over  necessaries,  con- 
100 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

trived  to  spend  an  unduly  large  portion  on 
personal  luxuries. 

"We  ought  to  have  some  new  things  for 
the  kitchen,"  she  said  one  day. 

"No  money,"  said  Mr.  Gribble,  laconically. 

"And  a  mat  for  the  bathroom." 

Mr.  Gribble  got  up  and  went  out. 

She  had  to  go  to  him  for  everything.  Two 
hundred  a  year  and  not  a  penny  she  could 
call  her  own !  She  consulted  her  heart,  and 
that  faithful  organ  responded  with  a  bound 
that  set  her  nerves  quivering.  If  she  could 
only  screw  her  courage  to  the  sticking-point 
the  question  would  be  settled  for  once  and  all. 

White  and  trembling  she  sat  at  breakfast 
on  the  first  of  November,  waiting  for  the  post- 
man, while  the  unconscious  Mr.  Gribble  went 
on  with  his  meal.  The  double-knocks  down 
the  road  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  Mr. 
Gribble,  wiping  his  mouth,  sat  upright  with 
an  air  of  alert  and  pleased  interest.  Rapid 
steps  came  to  the  front  door,  and  a  double 
bang  followed. 

101 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

" Always  punctual,"  said  Mr.  Gribble,  good- 
humouredly. 

His  wife  made  no  reply,  but,  taking  a  blue- 
crossed  envelope  from  the  maid  in  her  shaking 
fingers,  looked  round  for  a  knife.  Her  gaze 
encountered  Mr.  Cribble's  outstretched  hand. 

"After  you,"  he  said  sharply. 

Mrs.  Gribble  found  the  knife,  and,  hacking 
tremulously  at  the  envelope,  peeped  inside  it 
and,  with  her  gaze  fastened  on  the  window, 
fumbled  for  her  pocket.  She  was  so  pale  and 
shook  so  much  that  the  words  died  away  on 
her  husband's  lips. 

"You — you  had  better  let  me  take  care  of 
that,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"It  is — all  right,"  gasped  his  wife. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  and,  hardly 
able  to  believe  in  her  victory,  sat  struggling 
for  breath.  Before  her,  grim  and  upright,  her 
husband  sat,  a  figure  of  helpless  smouldering 
wrath. 

"You  might  lose  it,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"I  sha'n't  lose  it,"  said  his  wife. 
1 02 


The  Weaker  Vessel 

To  avoid  further  argument,  she  arose  and 
went  slowly  upstairs.  Through  the  doorway 
Mr.  Gribble  saw  her  helping  herself  up  by  the 
banisters,  her  left  hand  still  at  her  throat. 
Then  he  heard  her  moving  slowly  about  in 
the  bedroom  overhead. 

He  took  out  his  pipe  and  filled  it  mechani- 
cally, and  was  just  holding  a  match  to  the 
tobacco  when  he  paused  and  gazed  with  a 
puzzled  air  at  the  ceiling.  "Blamed  if  it 
don't  sound  like  somebody  dancing!"  he 
growled. 


103 


STEPPING  BACKWARDS 


Stepping  Backwards 

"TT  7ONDERFUL  improvement,"  said  Mr. 
Jack  Mills.  "  Show  'em  to  me  again." 

Mr.  Simpson  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and,  parting  his  lips,  revealed  his  new  teeth. 

"And  you  talk  better,"  said  Mr.  Mills, 
taking  his  glass  from  the  counter  and  emptying 
it;  "you  ain't  got  that  silly  lisp  you  used  to 
have.  What  does  your  missis  think  of  'em  ?" 

"She  hasn't  seen  'em  yet,"  said  the  other. 
"I  had  'em  put  in  at  dinner-time.  I  ate  my 
dinner  with  'em." 

Mr.  Mills  expressed  his  admiration.  "If 
it  wasn't  for  your  white  hair  and  whiskers 
you'd  look  thirty  again,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Fifty-three,"  said  his  friend.  "If  it  wasn't 
107 


Stepping  Backwards 

for  being  laughed  at  I've  often  thought  of 
having  my  whiskers  shaved  off  and  my  hair 
dyed  black.  People  think  I'm  sixty." 

"Or  seventy,"  continued  Mr.  Mills.  "What 
does  it  matter,  people  laughing  ?  You've  got 
a  splendid  head  of  'air,  and  it  would  dye 
beautiful." 

Mr.  Simpson  shook  his  head  and,  ordering 
a  couple  of  glasses  of  bitter,  attacked  his  in 
silence. 

"It  might  be  done  gradual,"  he  said,  after 
a  long  interval.  "It  don't  do  anybody  good 
at  the  warehouse  to  look  old." 

"Make  a  clean  job  of  it,"  counselled  Mr. 
Mills,  who  was  very  fond  of  a  little  cheap 
excitement.  "Get  it  over  and  done  with. 
You've  got  good  features,  and  you'd  look 
splendid  clean-shaved." 

Mr.  Simpson  smiled  faintly. 

"Only  on  Wednesday  the  barmaid  here 
was  asking  after  you,"  pursued  Mr.  Mills. 

Mr.  Simpson  smiled  again. 

"She  says  to  me,  *  Where's  Gran'pa?'  she 
108 


Stepping  Backwards 

says,  and  when  I  says,  haughty  like,  'Who  do 
you  mean?'  she  says,  'Father  Christmas!* 
If  you  was  to  tell  her  that  you  are  only  fifty- 
three,  she'd  laugh  in  your  face." 

"Let  her  laugh,"  said  the  other,  sourly. 

"Come  out  and  get  it  off,"  said  Mr.  Mills, 
earnestly.  "There's  a  barber's  in  Bird  Street; 
you  could  go  in  the  little  back  room,  where  he 
charges  a  penny  more,  and  get  it  done  without 
anybody  being  a  bit  the  wiser." 

He  put  his  hand  on  Mr.  Simpson's  shoulder, 
and  that  gentleman,  with  a  glare  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  fair  but  unconscious  offender,  rose 
in  a  hypnotized  fashion  and  followed  him  out. 
Twice  on  the  way  to  Bird  Street  Mr.  Simpson 
paused  and  said  he  had  altered  his  mind,  and 
twice  did  the  propulsion  of  Mr.  Mills's  right 
hand,  and  his  flattering  argument,  make  him 
alter  it  again. 

It  was  a  matter  of  relief  to  Mr.  Simpson 

that  the  barber  took  his  instructions  without 

any  show  of  surprise.     It  appeared,  indeed, 

that    an   elderly    man    of  seventy-eight   had 

109 


Stepping  Backwards 

enlisted  his  services  for  a  similar  purpose  not 
two  months  before,  and  had  got  married  six 
weeks  afterwards.  Age  of  the  bride  given 
as  twenty-four,  but  said  to  have  looked 
older. 

A  snip  of  the  scissors,  and  six  inches  of 
white  beard  fell  to  the  floor.  For  the  first 
time  in  thirty  years  Mr.  Simpson  felt  a  razor 
on  his  face.  Then  his  hair  was  cut  and 
shampooed;  and  an  hour  later  he  sat  gazing 
at  a  dark-haired,  clean-shaven  man  in  the 
glass  who  gazed  back  at  him  with  wondering 
eyes — a  lean-jawed,  good-looking  man,  who, 
in  a  favourable  light,  might  pass  for  forty. 
He  turned  and  met  the  admiring  eyes  of  Mr. 
Mills. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  inquired  the 
latter.  "You  look  young  enough  to  be  your 
own  son." 

"Or  grandson,"  said  the  barber,  with 
professional  pride. 

Mr.  Simpson  got  up  slowly  from  the  chair 
and,  accompanied  by  the  admiring  Mr.  Mills, 
no 


Stepping  Backwards 

passed  out  into  the  street.  The  evening  was 
young,  and,  at  his  friend's  suggestion,  they 
returned  to  the  Plume  of  Feathers. 

"You  give  the  order,"  said  Mr.  Mills,  "and 
see  whether  she  recognizes  you." 

Mr.  Simpson  obeyed. 

"Don't  you  know  him?"  inquired  Mr. 
Mills,  as  the  barmaid  turned  away. 

"I  don't  think  I  have  that  pleasure,"  said 
the  girl,  simpering. 

"Gran'pa's  eldest  boy,"  said  Mr.  Mills. 

"Oh!"  said  the  girl.  "Well,  I  hope  he's 
a  better  man  than  his  father,  then  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  demanded 
Mr.  Simpson,  painfully  conscious  of  his  friend's 
regards. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  girl,  "nothing.  Only 
we  can  all  be  better,  can't  we  ?  He's  a  nice 
old  gentleman;  so  simple." 

"Don't  know  you  from  Adam,"  said  Mr. 
Mills,  as  she  turned  away.  "  Now,  if  you  ask 
me,  I  don't  believe  as  your  own  missis  will 
recognize  you." 

in 


Stepping  Backwards 

"Rubbish,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "My  wife 
would  know  me  anywhere.  We've  been 
married  over  thirty  years.  Thirty  years  of 
sunshine  and  shadow  together.  You're  a  single 
man,  and  don't  understand  these  things." 

"P'r'aps  you're  right,"  said  his  friend. 
"But  it'll  be  a  bit  of  a  shock  to  her,  anyway. 
What  do  you  say  to  me  stepping  round  and 
breaking  the  news  to  her  ?  It's  a  bit  sudden, 
you  know.  She's  expecting  a  white-haired  old 
gentleman,  not  a  black-haired  boy." 

Mr.  Simpson  looked  a  bit  uneasy.  "P'r'aps 
I  ought  to  have  told  her  first,"  he  murmured, 
craning  his  neck  to  look  in  the  glass  at  the 
back  of  the  bar. 

"I'll  go  and  put  it  right  for  you,"  said  his 
friend.  "You  stay  here  and  smoke  your 
pipe." 

He  stepped  out  briskly,  but  his  pace  slack- 
ened as  he  drew  near  the  house. 

"I — I — came — to  see  you  about  your  hus- 
band," he  faltered,  as  Mrs.  Simpson  opened 
the  door  and  stood  regarding  him. 
112 


Stepping  Backwards 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed,  with 
a  faint  cry.  "What's  happened  to  him?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Mills,  hastily. 
"Nothing  serious,  that  is.  I  just  came  round 
to  warn  you  so  that  you  will  be  able  to  know 
it's  him." 

Mrs.  Simpson  let  off  a  shriek  that  set  his 
ears  tingling.  Then,  steadying  herself  by  the 
wall,  she  tottered  into  the  front  room,  followed 
by  the  discomfited  Mr.  Mills,  and  sank  into  a 
chair. 

"He's  dead!"  she  sobbed.    "He's  dead!" 

"He  is  not,"  said  Mr.  Mills. 

"Is  he  much  hurt?  Is  he  dying?"  gasped 
Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Only  his  hair,"  said  Mr.  Mills,  clutching 
at  the  opening.  "He  is  not  hurt  at  all." 

Mrs.  Simpson  dabbed  at  her  eyes  and  sat 
regarding  him  in  bewilderment.  Her  twin 
chins  were  still  quivering  with  emotion,  but 
her  eyes  were  beginning  to  harden.  "What 
are  you  talking  about?"  she  inquired,  in  a 
raspy  voice. 

113 


Stepping  Backwards 

"He's  been  to  a  hairdresser's,"  said  Mr. 
Mills.  "He's  'ad  all  his  white  whiskers  cut 
off,  and  his  hair  cut  short  and  dyed  black. 
And,  what  with  that  and  his  new  teeth,  I 
thought — he  thought — p'r'aps  you  mightn't 
know  him  when  he  came  home." 

"Dyed?"  cried  Mrs.  Simpson,  starting  to 
her  feet. 

Mr.  Mills  nodded.  "He  looks  twenty  years 
younger,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "He'd  pass 
for  his  own  son  anywhere." 

Mrs.  Simpson's  eyes  snapped.  "Perhaps 
he'd  pass  for  my  son,"  she  remarked. 

"Yes,  easy,"  said  the  tactful  Mr.  Mills. 
"You  can't  think  what  a  difference  it's  made 
to  him.  That's  why  I  came  to  see  you — so 
you  shouldn't  be  startled." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "I'm 
much  obliged.  But  you  might  have  spared 
yourself  the  trouble.  I  should  know  my 
husband  anywhere." 

"Ah,  that's  what  you  think,"  retorted  Mr. 
Mills,  with  a  smile;  "but  the  barmaid  at  the 
114 


Stepping  Backwards 

Plume  didn't.  That's  what  made  me  come 
to  you." 

Mrs.  Simpson  gazed  at  him. 

"I  says  to  myself,"  continued  Mr.  Mills, 
:'If  she  don't  know  him,  I'm  certain  his 
missis  won't,  and  I'd  better ' : 

"You'd  better  go,"  interrupted  his  hostess. 

Mr.  Mills  started,  and  then,  with  much 
dignity,  stalked  after  her  to  the  door. 

"As  to  your  story,  I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "Whatever  else 
my  husband  is,  he  isn't  a  fool,  and  he'd  no 
more  think  of  cutting  off  his  whiskers  and 
dyeing  his  hair  than  you  would  of  telling  the 
truth." 

"Seeing  is  believing,"  said  the  offended 
Mr.  Mills,  darkly. 

"I'll  wait  till  I  do  see,  and  then  I  sha'n't 
believe,"  was  the  reply.  "It  is  a  put-up 
job  between  you  and  some  other  precious 
idiot,  I  expect.  But  you  can't  deceive  me. 
If  your  black-haired  friend  comes  here,  he'll 
get  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

"5 


Stepping  Backwards 

She  slammed  the  door  on  his  protests  and, 
returning  to  the  parlour,  gazed  fiercely  into 
the  glass  on  the  mantelpiece.  It  reflected 
sixteen  stone  of  honest  English  womanhood,  a 
thin  wisp  of  yellowish-grey  hair,  and  a  pair  of 
faded  eyes  peering  through  clumsy  spectacles. 

"Son,  indeed  !"  she  said,  her  lips  quivering. 
"You  wait  till  you  come  home,  my  lord!" 

Mr.  Simpson,  with  some  forebodings,  re- 
turned home  an  hour  later.  To  a  man  who 
loved  peace  and  quietness  the  report  of  the 
indignant  Mr.  Mills  was  not  of  a  reassuring 
nature.  He  hesitated  on  the  doorstep  for  a 
few  seconds  while  he  fumbled  for  his  key, 
and  then,  humming  unconcernedly,  hung 
his  hat  in  the  passage  and  walked  into  the 
parlour. 

The  astonished  scream  of  his  wife  warned 
him  that  Mr.  Mills  had  by  no  means  exag- 
gerated. She  rose  from  her  seat  and,  crouch- 
ing by  the  fireplace,  regarded  him  with  a 
mixture  of  anger  and  dismay. 

"It — it's  all  right,  Milly,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
116 


Stepping  Backwards 

with  a  smile  that  revealed  a  dazzling  set  of 
teeth. 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Mrs.  Simpson. 
"How  dare  you  call  me  by  my  Christian  name ! 
It's  a  good  job  for  you  my  husband  is  not 
here." 

"He  wouldn't  hurt  me,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
with  an  attempt  at  facetiousness.  "He's  the 
best  friend  I  ever  had.  Why,  we  slept  in  the 
same  cradle." 

"I  don't  want  any  of  your  nonsense,"  said 
Mrs.  Simpson.  "You  get  out  of  my  house 
before  I  send  for  the  police.  How  dare  you 
come  into  a  respectable  woman's  house  in 
this  fashion  ?  Be  off  with  you." 

"Now,  look  here,  Milly "  began  Mr. 

Simpson. 

His  wife  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height 
of  four  feet  eleven. 

"I've  had  a  hair-cut  and  a  shave,"  pursued 
her  husband;  "also  I've  had  my  hair  restored 
to  its  natural  colour.  But  I'm  the  same  man, 
and  you  know  it." 


Stepping  Backwards 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  his  wife, 
doggedly.  "I  don't  know  you  from  Adam. 
I've  never  seen  you  before,  and  I  don't  want 
to  see  you  again.  You  go  away." 

"I'm  your  husband,  and  my  place  is  at 
home,"  replied  Mr.  Simpson.  "A  man  can 
have  a  shave  if  he  likes,  can't  he  ?  Where's 
my  supper?" 

"Go  on,"  said  his  wife.  "Keep  it  up. 
But  be  careful  my  husband  don't  come  in 
and  catch  you,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Simpson  gazed  at  her  fixedly,  and  then, 
with  an  impatient  exclamation,  walked  into 
the  small  kitchen  and  began  to  set  the  supper. 
A  joint  of  cold  beef,  a  jar  of  pickles,  bread, 
butter,  and  cheese  made  an  appetizing  display. 
Then  he  took  a  jug  from  the  dresser  and 
descended  to  the  cellar. 

A  musical  trickling  fell  on  the  ear  of  Mrs. 
Simpson  as  she  stood  at  the  parlour  door, 
and  drew  her  stealthily  to  the  cellar.  The 
key  was  in  the  lock,  and,  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment, she  closed  the  door  and  locked  it.  A 
118 


Stepping  Backwards 

sharp  cry  from  Mr.  Simpson  testified  to  his 
discomfiture. 

"Now  I'm  off  for  the  police,"  cried  his 
wife. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  shouted  Mr.  Simpson, 
tugging  wildly  at  the  door-handle.  "Open 
the  door." 

Mrs.  Simpson  remained  silent,  and  her  hus- 
band resumed  his  efforts  until  the  door-knob, 
unused  to  such  treatment,  came  off  in  his 
hand.  A  sudden  scrambling  noise  on  the 
cellar  stairs  satisfied  the  listener  that  he  had 
not  pulled  it  off  intentionally. 

She  stood  for  a  few  moments,  considering. 
It  was  a  stout  door  and  opened  inwards.  She 
took  her  bonnet  from  its  nail  in  the  kitchen 
and,  walking  softly  to  the  street-door,  set  off 
to  lay  the  case  before  a  brother  who  lived  a 
few  doors  away. 

"Poor  old  Bill,"  said  Mr.  Cooper,  when  she 
had  finished.  "Still,  it  might  be  worse;  he's 
got  the  barrel  o'  beer  with  him." 

"It's  not  Bill,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 
119 


Stepping  Backwards 

Mr.  Cooper  scratched  his  whiskers  and 
looked  at  his  wife. 

"She  ought  to  know,"  said  the  latter. 

"We'll  come  and  have  a  look  at  him/'  said 
Mr.  Cooper. 

Mrs.  Simpson  pondered,  and  eyed  him 
dubiously. 

"Come  in  and  have  a  bit  of  supper,"  she 
said  at  last.  "There's  a  nice  piece  of  beef  and 
pickles." 

"And  Bill — I  mean  the  stranger — sitting 
on  the  beer-barrel,"  said  Mr.  Cooper,  gloomily. 

"You  can  bring  your  beer  with  you,"  said 
his  sister,  sharply.  "Come  along." 

Mr.  Cooper  grinned,  and,  placing  a  couple 
of  bottles  in  his  coat  pockets,  followed  the  two 
ladies  to  the  house.  Seated  at  the  kitchen 
table,  he  grinned  again,  as  a  persistent  drum- 
ming took  place  on  the  cellar  door.  His  wife 
smiled,  and  a  faint,  sour  attempt  in  the  same 
direction  appeared  on  the  face  of  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Open  the  door!"   bellowed   an  indignant 
voice.    "Open  the  door!" 
120 


Stepping  Backwards 

Mrs.  Simpson,  commanding  silence  with  an 
uplifted  finger,  proceeded  to  carve  the  beef. 
A  rattle  of  knives  and  forks  succeeded. 

"O — pen — the — door  !"  said  the  voice  again. 

"Not  so  much  noise,"  commanded  Mr. 
Cooper.  "I  can't  hear  myself  eat." 

"Bob!"  said  the  voice,  in  relieved  accents, 
"  Bob  !  Come  and  let  me  out." 

Mr.  Cooper,  putting  a  huge  hand  over  his 
mouth,  struggled  nobly  with  his  feelings. 

"Who  are  you  calling  'Bob'?"  he  de- 
manded, in  an  unsteady  voice.  "You  keep 
yourself  to  yourself.  I've  heard  all  about  you. 
You've  got  to  stay  there  till  my  brother-in- 
law  comes  home." 

"It's  me,  Bob,"  said  Mr.  Simpson— "Bill." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say,"  said  Mr.  Cooper;  "but 
if  you're  Bill,  why  haven't  you  got  Bill's 
voice  ?" 

"Let  me  out  and  look  at  me,"  said  Mr. 
Simpson. 

There  was  a  faint  scream  from  both  ladies, 
followed  by  protests. 

121 


Stepping  Backwards 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Mr.  Cooper, 
reassuringly.  "I  wasn't  born  yesterday.  I 
don't  want  to  get  a  crack  over  the  head." 

"It's  all  a  mistake,  Bob,"  said  the  prisoner, 
appealingly.  "I  just  had  a  shave  and  a  hair- 
cut and — and  a  little  hair-dye.  If  you  open 
the  door  you'll  know  me  at  once." 

"How  would  it  be,"  said  Mr.  Cooper, 
turning  to  his  sister,  and  speaking  with  unusual 
distinctness — "how  would  it  be  if  you  opened 
the  door,  and  just  as  he  put  his  head  out  I 
hit  it  a  crack  with  the  poker  ?" 

"You  try  it  on,"  said  the  voice  behind  the 
door,  hotly.  "You  know  who  I  am  well 
enough,  Bob  Cooper.  I  don't  want  any  more 
of  your  nonsense.  Milly  has  put  you  up  to 
this!" 

"If  your  wife  don't  know  you,  how  do  you 
think  I  can?"  said  Mr.  Cooper.  "Now,  look 
here;  you  keep  quiet  till  my  brother-in-law 
comes  home.  If  he  don't  come  home  perhaps 
we  shall  be  more  likely  to  think  you're  him. 
If  he's  not  home  by  to-morrow  morning 

122 


Stepping  Backwards 

we Hsh  !  Hsh  !     Don't  you  know  there's 

ladies  present  ?" 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Mrs.  Cooper,  speaking 
for  the  first  time.  "My  brother-in-law  would 
never  talk  like  that." 

"I  should  never  forgive  him  if  he  did,"  said 
her  husband,  piously. 

He  poured  himself  out  another  glass  of 
beer  and  resumed  his  supper  with  relish. 
Conversation  turned  on  the  weather,  and  from 
that  to  the  price  of  potatoes.  Frantic  efforts 
on  the  part  of  the  prisoner  to  join  in  the 
conversation  and  give  it  a  more  personal  turn 
were  disregarded.  Finally  he  began  to  kick 
with  monotonous  persistency  on  the  door. 

"Stop  it!"  shouted  Mr.  Cooper. 

"I  won't,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 

The  noise  became  unendurable.  Mr. 
Cooper,  who  had  just  lit  his  pipe,  laid  it  on 
the  table  and  looked  round  at  his  companions. 

"He'll  have  the  door  down  soon,"  he  said, 
rising.  "Halloa,  there !" 

"Halloa!"  said  the  other. 
123 


Stepping  Backwards 

"You  say  you're  Bill  Simpson,"  said  Mr. 
Cooper,  holding  up  a  forefinger  at  Mrs. 
Simpson,  who  was  about  to  interrupt.  "If 
you  are,  tell  us  something  you  know  that  only 
you  could  know;  something  we  know,  so  as 
to  identify  you.  Things  about  your  past." 

A  strange  noise  sounded  behind  the  door. 

"Sounds  as  though  he  is  smacking  his  lips," 
said  Mrs.  Cooper  to  her  sister-in-law,  who  was 
eyeing  Mr.  Cooper  restlessly. 

"Very  good,"  said  Mr.  Simpson;  "I  agree. 
Who  is  there?" 

"Me  and  my  wife  and  Mrs.  Simpson,"  said 
Mr.  Cooper. 

"He  is  smacking  his  lips,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Cooper.  "Having  a  go  at  the  beer,  perhaps." 

"Let's  go  back  fifteen  years,"  said  Mr. 
Simpson  in  meditative  tones.  "Do  you  re- 
member that  girl  with  copper-coloured  hair 
that  used  to  live  in  John  Street?" 

"No!"  said  Mr.  Cooper,  loudly  and 
suddenly. 

"Do  you  remember  coming  to  me  one  day 
124 


Stepping  Backwards 

— two  days  after  Valentine  Day,  it  was — white 
as  chalk  and  shaking  like  a  leaf,  and " 

"NO!"  roared  Mr.  Cooper. 

"Very  well,  I  must  try  something  else, 
then,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  philosophically. 
"Carry  your  mind  back  ten  years,  Bob 
Cooper " 

"Look  here!"  said  Mr.  Cooper,  turning 
round  with  a  ghastly  smile.  "We'd  better 
get  off  home,  Mary.  I  don't  like  interfering 
in  other  people's  concerns.  Never  did." 

"You  stay  where  you  are,"  said  his  wife. 

"Ten  years,"  repeated  the  voice  behind 
the  door.  "There  was  a  new  barmaid  at  the 
Crown,  and  one  night  you " 

"If  I  listen  to  any  more  of  this  nonsense  I 
shall  burst,"  remarked  Mr.  Cooper,  plaintively. 

"Go  on,"  prompted  Mrs.  Cooper,  grimly- 
"One  night " 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "It 
doesn't  matter.  But  does  he  identify  me  ? 
Because  if  not  I've  got  a  lot  more  things  I 
can  try." 

125 


Stepping  Backwards 

The  harassed  Mr.  Cooper  looked  around 
appealingly. 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  recognize 
you "  he  began,  and  stopped  suddenly. 

"Go  back  to  your  courting  days,  then," 
said  Mr.  Simpson,  "when  Mrs.  Cooper  wasn't 
Mrs.  Cooper,  but  only  wanted  to  be." 

Mrs.  Cooper  shivered;   so  did  Mr.  Cooper. 

"And  you  came  round  to  me  for  advice," 
pursued  Mr.  Simpson,  in  reminiscent  accents, 
"because  there  was  another  girl  you  wasn't 
sure  of,  and  you  didn't  want  to  lose  them  both. 
Do  you  remember  sitting  with  the  two  photo- 
graphs— one  on  each  knee — and  trying  to 
make  up  your  mind  ?" 

"Wonderful  imagination,"  said  Mr.  Cooper, 
smiling  in  a  ghastly  fashion  at  his  wife.  "  Hark 
at  him!" 

"I  am  harking,"  said  Mrs.  Cooper. 

"Am  I  Bill  Simpson  or  am  I  not?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Simpson. 

"Bill  was  always  fond  of  his  joke,"  said 
Mr.  Cooper,  with  a  glance  at  the  company  that 
126 


Stepping  Backwards 

would  have  moved  an  oyster.  "He  was  always 
fond  of  making  up  things.  You're  like  him 
in  that.  What  do  you  think,  Milly?" 

"It's  not  my  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Tell  us  something  about  her,"  said  Mr. 
Cooper,  hastily. 

"I  daren't,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "Doesn't 
that  prove  I'm  her  husband  ?  But  I'll  tell 
you  things  about  your  wife,  if  you  like." 

"You  dare!"  said  Mrs.  Cooper,  turning 
crimson,  as  she  realized  what  confidences 
might  have  passed  between  husband  and 
wife.  "If  you  say  a  word  of  your  lies  about 
me,  I  don't  know  what  I  won't  do  to 
you." 

"Very  well,  I  must  go  on  about  Bob,  then 
— till  he  recognizes  me,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
patiently.  "Carry  your  mind " 

"Open  the  door  and  let  him  out,"  shouted 
Mr.  Cooper,  turning  to  his  sister.  "How 
can  I  recognize  a  man  through  a  deal  door?" 

Mrs.  Simpson,  after  a  little  hesitation, 
handed  him  the  key,  and  the  next  moment 
127 


Stepping  Backwards 

her  husband  stepped  out  and  stood  blinking 
in  the  gas-light. 

"Do  you  recognize  me?"  he  asked,  turning 
to  Mr.  Cooper. 

"I  do,"  said  that  gentleman,  with  a  ferocious 
growl. 

"I'd  know  you  anywhere,"  said  Mrs.  Cooper, 
with  emphasis. 

"And  you?"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  turning  to 
his  wife. 

"You're  not  my  husband,"  she  said,  ob- 
stinately. 

"Are  you  sure  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Cooper. 

"Certain." 

"Very  good,  then,"- said  her  brother.  "If 
he's  not  your  husband  I'm  going  to  knock  his 
head  off  for  telling  them  lies  about  me." 

He  sprang  forward  and,  catching  Mr.  Simp- 
son by  the  collar,  shook  him  violently  until 
his  head  banged  against  the  dresser.  The 
next  moment  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Simpson 
were  in  the  hair  of  Mr.  Cooper. 

"How  dare  you  knock  my  husband  about !" 
128 


Stepping  Backwards 

she  screamed,  as  Mr.  Cooper  let  go  and  caught 
her  fingers.  "You've  hurt  him." 

"Concussion,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
with  great  presence  of  mind. 

His  wife  helped  him  to  a  chair  and,  wetting 
her  handkerchief  at  the  tap,  tenderly  bathed 
the  dyed  head.  Mr.  Cooper,  breathing  hard, 
stood  by  watching  until  his  wife  touched  him 
on  the  arm. 

"You  come  off  home,"  she  said,  in  a  hard 
voice.  "You  ain't  wanted.  Are  you  going  to 
stay  here  all  night  ? " 

"I  should  like  to,"  said  Mr.  Cooper, wistfully. 


129 


THE  THREE  SISTERS 


The  Three  Sisters 

THIRTY  years  ago  on  a  wet  autumn  eve- 
ning the  household  of  Mallett's  Lodge 
was  gathered  round  the  death-bed  of  Ursula 
Mallow,  the  eldest  of  the  three  sisters  who 
inhabited  it.  The  dingy  moth-eaten  curtains 
of  the  old  wooden  bedstead  were  drawn  apart, 
the  light  of  a  smoking  oil-lamp  falling  upon  the 
hopeless  countenance  of  the  dying  woman  as 
she  turned  her  dull  eyes  upon  her  sisters. 
The  room  was  in  silence  except  for  an  occasional 
sob  from  the  youngest  sister,  Eunice.  Outside 
the  rain  fell  steadily  over  the  steaming  marshes. 
"Nothing  is  to  be  changed,  Tabitha," 
gasped  Ursula  to  the  other  sister,  who  bore  a 
striking  likeness  to  her  although  her  expression 
was  harder  and  colder;  "this  room  is  to  be 
locked  up  and  never  opened." 
133 


The  Three  Sisters 

"Very  well,"  said  Tabitha  brusquely, 
"though  I  don't  see  how  it  can  matter  to 
you  then/' 

"It  does  matter,"  said  her  sister  with  start- 
ling energy.  "How  do  you  know,  how  do  I 
know  that  I  may  not  sometimes  visit  it  ?  I  have 
lived  in  this  house  so  long  I  am  certain  that  I 
shall  see  it  again.  I  will  come  back.  Come 
back  to  watch  over  you  both  and  see  that  no 
harm  befalls  you." 

"You  are  talking  wildly,"  said  Tabitha,  by 
no  means  moved  at  her  sister's  solicitude  for 
her  welfare.  "Your  mind  is  wandering;  you 
know  that  I  have  no  faith  in  such  things." 

Ursula  sighed,  and  beckoning  to  Eunice,  who 
was  weeping  silently  at  the  bedside,  placed  her 
feeble  arms  around  her  neck  and  kissed 
her. 

"Do  not  weep,  dear,"  she  said  feebly. 
"Perhaps  it  is  best  so.  A  lonely  woman's  life 
is  scarce  worth  living.  We  have  no  hopes,  no 
aspirations;  other  women  have  had  happy 
husbands  and  children,  but  we  in  this  forgotten 
134 


AlFRED 

The  Three  Sisters 

place  have  grown  old  together.  I  go  first, 
but  you  must  soon  follow." 

Tabitha,  comfortably  conscious  of  only  forty 
years  and  an  iron  frame,  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  smiled  grimly. 

"I  go  first,"  repeated  Ursula  in  a  new  and 
strange  voice  as  her  heavy  eyes  slowly  closed, 
"but  I  will  come  for  each  of  you  in  turn,  when 
your  lease  of  life  runs  out.  At  that  moment  I 
will  be  with  you  to  lead  your  steps  whither  I 
now  go." 

As  she  spoke  the  flickering  lamp  went  out 
suddenly  as  though  extinguished  by  a  rapid 
hand,  and  the  room  was  left  in  utter  darkness. 
A  strange  suffocating  noise  issued  from  the 
bed,  and  when  the  trembling  women  had 
relighted  the  lamp,  all  that  was  left  of  Ursula 
Mallow  was  ready  for  the  grave. 

That  night  the  survivors  passed  together. 
The  dead  woman  had  been  a  firm  believer  in 
the  existence  of  that  shadowy  borderland  which 
is  said  to  form  an  unhallowed  link  between  the 
living  and  the  dead,  and  even  the  stolid  Tabitha, 
135 


The  Three  Sisters 

slightly  unnerved  by  the  events  of  the  night, 
was  not  free  from  certain  apprehensions  that 
she  might  have  been  right. 

With  the  bright  morning  their  fears  dis- 
appeared. The  sun  stole  in  at  the  window, 
and  seeing  the  poor  earthworn  face  on  the 
pillow  so  touched  it  and  glorified  it  that  only 
its  goodness  and  weakness  were  seen,  and  the 
beholders  came  to  wonder  how  they  could  ever 
have  felt  any  dread  of  aught  so  calm  and  peace- 
ful. A  day  or  two  passed,  and  the  body  was 
transferred  to  a  massive  coffin  long  regarded 
as  the  finest  piece  of  work  of  its  kind  ever 
turned  out  of  the  village  carpenter's  workshop. 
Then  a  slow  and  melancholy  cortege  headed 
by  four  bearers  wound  its  solemn  way  across 
the  marshes  to  the  family  vault  in  the  grey 
old  church,  and  all  that  was  left  of  Ursula  was 
placed  by  the  father  and  mother  who  had  taken 
that  self-same  journey  some  thirty  years  before. 

To  Eunice  as  they  toiled  slowly  home  the 
day  seemed  strange  and  Sabbath-like,  the  flat 
prospect  of  marsh  wilder  and  more  forlorn 
136 


The  Three  Sisters 

than  usual,  the  roar  of  the  sea  more  depressing. 
Tabitha  had  no  such  fancies.  The  bulk  of,the 
dead  woman's  property  had  been  left  to 
Eunice,  and  her  avaricious  soul  was  sorely 
troubled  and  her  proper  sisterly  feelings  of 
regret  for  the  deceased  sadly  interfered  with 
in  consequence. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  that 
money,  Eunice?"  she  asked  as  they  sat  at 
their  quiet  tea. 

"I  shall  leave  it  as  it  stands,"  said  Eunice 
slowly.  "We  have  both  got  sufficient  to  live 
upon,  and  I  shall  devote  the  income  from 
it  to  supporting  some  beds  in  a  children's 
hospital." 

"If  Ursula  had  wished  it  to  go  to  a  hospital," 
said  Tabitha  in  her  deep  tones,  "she  would  have 
left  the  money  to  it  herself.  I  wonder  you  do 
not  respect  her  wishes  more." 

"What  else  can  I  do  with  it  then  ?"  inquired 
Eunice. 

"Save  it,"  said  the  other  with  gleaming 
eyes,  "save  it." 

137 


The  Three  Sisters 

Eunice  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  said  she,  "it  shall  go  to  the  sick 
children,  but  the  principal  I  will  not  touch, 
and  if  I  die  before  you  it  shall  become  yours 
and  you  can  do  what  you  like  with  it." 

"Very  well,"  said  Tabitha,  smothering  her 
anger  by  a  strong  effort;  "I  don't  believe  that 
was  what  Ursula  meant  you  to  do  with  it, 
and  I  don't  believe  she  will  rest  quietly  in  the 
grave  while  you  squander  the  money  she  stored 
so  carefully." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Eunice  with 
pale  lips.  "You  are  trying  to  frighten  me; 
I  thought  that  you  did  not  believe  in  such 
things." 

Tabitha  made  no  answer,  and  to  avoid  the 
anxious  inquiring  gaze  of  her  sister,  drew  her 
chair  to  the  fire,  and  folding  her  gaunt  arms, 
composed  herself  for  a  nap. 

For  some  time  life  went  on  quietly  in  the 

old  house.    The  room  of  the  dead  woman,  in 

accordance  with  her  last  desire,  was  kept  firmly 

locked,  its  dirty  windows  forming  a  strange 

138 


The  Three  Sisters 

contrast  to  the  prim  cleanliness  of  the  others. 
Tabitha,  never  very  talkative,  became  more 
taciturn  than  ever,  and  stalked  about  the 
house  and  the  neglected  garden  like  an  unquiet 
spirit,  her  brow  roughened  into  the  deep 
wrinkles  suggestive  of  much  thought.  As  the 
winter  came  on,  bringing  with  it  the  long  dark 
evenings,  the  old  house  became  more  lonely 
than  ever,  and  an  air  of  mystery  and  dread 
seemed  to  hang  over  it  and  brood  in  its  empty 
rooms  and  dark  corridors.  The  deep  silence 
of  night  was  broken  by  strange  noises  for  which 
neither  the  wind  nor  the  rats  could  be  held 
accountable.  Old  Martha,  seated  in  her  dis- 
tant kitchen,  heard  strange  sounds  upon  the 
stairs,  and  once,  upon  hurrying  to  them,  fan- 
cied that  she  saw  a  dark  figure  squatting  upon 
the  landing,  though  a  subsequent  search  with 
candle  and  spectacles  failed  to  discover  any- 
thing. Eunice  was  disturbed  by  several  vague 
incidents,  and,  as  she  suffered  from  a  com- 
plaint of  the  heart,  rendered  very  ill  by  them. 
Even  Tabitha  admitted  a  strangeness  about  the 
139 


The  Three  Sisters 

house,  but,  confident  in  her  piety  and  virtue, 
took  no  heed  of  it,  her  mind  being  fully 
employed  in  another  direction. 

Since  the  death  of  her  sister  all  restraint 
upon  her  was  removed,  and  she  yielded  herself 
up  entirely  to  the  stern  and  hard  rules  enforced 
by  avarice  upon  its  devotees.  Her  house- 
keeping expenses  were  kept  rigidly  separate 
from  those  of  Eunice  and  her  food  limited  to 
the  coarsest  dishes,  while  in  the  matter  of 
clothes,  the  old  servant  was  by  far  the 
better  dressed.  Seated  alone  in  her  bed- 
room this  uncouth,  hard-featured  creature 
revelled  in  her  possessions,  grudging  even 
the  expense  of  the  candle-end  which  enabled 
her  to  behold  them.  So  completely  did  this 
passion  change  her  that  both  Eunice  and 
Martha  became  afraid  of  her,  and  lay  awake 
in  their  beds  night  after  night  trembling 
at  the  chinking  of  the  coins  at  her  unholy 
vigils. 

One  day  Eunice  ventured  to  remonstrate. 
"Why  don't  you  bank  your  money,  Tabitha  ?" 
140 


The  Three  Sisters 

she  said;  "it  is  surely  not  safe  to  keep  such 
large  sums  in  such  a  lonely  house.*' 

"Large  sums!"  repeated  the  exasperated 
Tabitha,  "large  sums  !  what  nonsense  is  this  ? 
You  know  well  that  I  have  barely  sufficient 
to  keep  me." 

"It's  a  great  temptation  to  housebreakers," 
said  her  sister,  not  pressing  the  point.  "I 
made  sure  last  night  that  I  heard  somebody 
in  the  house." 

"Did  you  ?"  said  Tabitha,  grasping  her  arm, 
a  horrible  look  on  her  face.  "So  did  I.  I 
thought  they  went  to  Ursula's  room,  and  I 
got  out  of  bed  and  we'nt  on  the  stairs  to 
listen." 

"Well?"  said  Eunice  faintly,  fascinated  by 
the  look  on  her  sister's  face. 

"There  was  something  there,"  said  Tabitha 
slowly.  "I'll  swear  it,  for  I  stood  on  the  land- 
ing by  her  door  and  listened;  something 
scuffling  on  the  floor  round  and  round  the 
room.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  the  cat,  but 
when  I  went  up  there  this  morning  the 
141 


The  Three  Sisters 

door  was  still  locked,  and  the  cat  was  in  the 
kitchen." 

"Oh,  let  us  leave  this  dreadful  house," 
moaned  Eunice. 

"What!"  said  her  sister  grimly;  "afraid  of 
poor  Ursula  ?  Why  should  you  be  ?  Your 
own  sister  who  nursed  you  when  you  were  a 
babe,  and  who  perhaps  even  now  conies  and 
watches  over  your  slumbers." 

"Oh!"  said  Eunice,  pressing  her  hand  to 
her  side,  "if  I  saw  her  I  should  die.  I  should 
think  that  she  had  come  for  me  as  she  said 
she  would.  O  God !  have  mercy  on  me, 
I  am  dying." 

She  reeled  as  she  spoke,  and  before  Tabitha 
could  save  her,  sank  senseless  to  the  floor. 

"Get  some  water,"  cried  Tabitha,  as  old 
Martha  came  hurrying  up  the  stairs,  "Eunice 
has  fainted." 

The  old  woman,  with  a  timid  glance  at  her, 

retired,   reappearing  shortly   afterwards  with 

the  water,  with  which  she  proceeded  to  restore 

her  much-loved  mistress  to  her  senses.  Tabitha, 

142 


The  Three  Sisters 

as  soon  as  this  was  accomplished,  stalked  off  to 
her  room,  leaving  her  sister  and  Martha  sitting 
drearily  enough  in  the  small  parlour,  watching 
the  fire  and  conversing  in  whispers. 

It  was  clear  to  the  old  servant  that  this  state 
of  things  could  not  last  much  longer,  and  she 
repeatedly  urged  her  mistress  to  leave  a  house 
so  lonely  and  so  mysterious.  To  her  great 
delight  Eunice  at  length  consented,  despite 
the  fierce  opposition  of  her  sister,  and  at  the 
mere  idea  of  leaving  gained  greatly  in  health 
and  spirits.  A  small  but  comfortable  house 
was  hired  in  Morville,  and  arrangements  made 
for  a  speedy  change. 

It  was  the  last  night  in  the  old  house,  and 
all  the  wild  spirits  of  the  marshes,  the  wind 
and  the  sea  seemed  to  have  joined  forces  for 
one  supreme  effort.  When  the  wind  dropped, 
as  it  did  at  brief  intervals,  the  sea  was  heard 
moaning  on  the  distant  beach,  strangely  min- 
gled with  the  desolate  warning  of  the  bell-buoy 
as  it  rocked  to  the  waves.  Then  the  wind  rose 
again,  and  the  noise  of  the  sea  was  lost  in  the 


The  Three  Sisters 

fierce  gusts  which,  finding  no  obstacle  on  the 
open  marshes,  swept  with  their  full  fury  upon 
the  house  by  the  creek.  The  strange  voices 
of  the  air  shrieked  in  its  chimneys,  windows 
rattled,  doors  slammed,  and  even  the  very 
curtains  seemed  to  live  and  move. 

Eunice  was  in  bed,  awake.  A  small  night- 
light  in  a  saucer  of  oil  shed  a  sickly  glare  upon 
the  worm-eaten  old  furniture,  distorting  the 
most  innocent  articles  into  ghastly  shapes.  A 
wilder  gust  than  usual  almost  deprived  her  of 
the  protection  afforded  by  that  poor  light,  and 
she  lay  listening  fearfully  to  the  creakings  and 
other  noises  on  the  stairs,  bitterly  regretting 
that  she  had  not  asked  Martha  to  sleep  with 
her.  But  it  was  not  too  late  even  now.  She 
slipped  hastily  to  the  floor,  crossed  to  the 
huge  wardrobe,  and  was  in  the  very  act  of 
taking  her  dressing-gown  from  its  peg  when 
an  unmistakable  footfall  was  heard  on  the 
stairs.  The  robe  dropped  from  her  shaking 
fingers,  and  with  a  quickly  beating  heart  she 
regained  her  bed. 

144 


The  Three  Sisters 

The  sounds  ceased  and  a  deep  silence  fol- 
lowed, which  she  herself  was  unable  to  break 
although  she  strove  hard  to  do  so.  A  wild  gust 
of  wind  shook  the  windows  and  nearly  extin- 
guished the  light,  and  when  its  flame  had  re- 
gained its  accustomed  steadiness  she  saw  that 
the  door  was  slowly  opening,  while  the  huge 
shadow  of  a  hand  blotted  the  papered  wall. 
Still  her  tongue  refused  its  office.  The  door 
flew  open  with  a  crash,  a  cloaked  figure  en- 
tered and,  throwing  aside  its  coverings,  she  saw 
with  a  horror  past  all  expression  the  napkin- 
bound  face  of  the  dead  Ursula  smiling  terribly 
at  her.  In  her  last  extremity  she  raised  her 
faded  eyes  above  for  succour,  and  then  as  the 
figure  noiselessly  advanced  and  laid  its  cold 
hand  upon  her  brow,  the  soul  of  Eunice  Mallow 
left  its  body  with  a  wild  shriek  and  made  its 
way  to  the  Eternal. 

Martha,  roused  by  the  cry,  and  shivering 

with  dread,  rushed  to  the  door  and  gazed  in 

terror  at  the  figure  which  stood  leaning  over 

the  bedside.    As  she  watched,  it  slowly  removed 

145 


The  Three  Sisters 

the  cowl  and  the  napkin  and  exposed  the  fell 
face  of  Tabitha,  so  strangely  contorted  between 
fear  and  triumph  that  she  hardly  recognized  it. 

"Who's  there?"  cried  Tabitha  in  a  terrible 
voice  as  she  saw  the  old  woman's  shadow  on 
the  wall. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  cry,"  said  Martha, 
entering.  "Did  anybody  call  ?" 

"Yes,  Eunice,"  said  the  other,  regarding 
her  closely.  "  I,  too,  heard  the  cry,  and  hurried 
to  her.  What  makes  her  so  strange  ?  Is  she  in 
a  trance  ?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  woman,  falling  on  her 
knees  by  the  bed  and  sobbing  bitterly,  "the 
trance  of  death.  Ah,  my  dear,  my  poor  lonely 
girl,  that  this  should  be  the  end  of  it !  She 
has  died  of  fright,"  said  the  old  woman,  point- 
ing to  the  eyes,  which  even  yet  retained  their 
horror.  "She  has  seen  something  devilish." 

Tabitha's  gaze  fell.  "  She  has  always  suffered 
with  her  heart,"  she  muttered;  "the  night  has 
frightened  her;  it  frightened  me." 

She  stood  upright  by  the  foot  of  the  bed  as 
146 


The  Three  Sisters 

Martha  drew  the  sheet  over  the  face  of  the 
dead  woman. 

"First  Ursula,  then  Eunice,"  said  Tabitha, 
drawing  a  deep  breath.  "I  can't  stay  here. 
I'll  dress  and  wait  for  the  morning." 

She  left  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  with 
bent  head  proceeded  to  her  own.  Martha 
remained  by  the  bedside,  and  gently  closing 
the  staring  eyes,  fell  on  her  knees,  and  prayed 
long  and  earnestly  for  the  departed  soul. 
Overcome  with  grief  and  fear  she  remained 
with  bowed  head  until  a  sudden  sharp  cry 
from  Tabitha  brought  her  to  her  feet. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  woman,  going  to  the 
door. 

"Where  are  you  ?"  cried  Tabitha,  somewhat 
reassured  by  her  voice. 

"In  Miss  Eunice's  bedroom.  Do  you  want 
anything  ?" 

"Come  down  at  once.  Quick!  I  am 
unwell." 

Her  voice  rose  suddenly  to  a  scream. 
"Quick!  For  God's  sake !  Quick,  or  I  shall 


The  Three  Sisters 

go  mad.     There  is  some  strange  woman  in  the 
house." 

The  old  woman  stumbled  hastily  down  the 
dark  stairs.  "What  is  the  matter  ?"  she  cried, 
entering  the  room.  "Who  is  it?  What  do 
you  mean  ?" 

"I  saw  it,"  said  Tabitha,  grasping  her  con- 
vulsively by  the  shoulder.  "I  was  coming  to 
you  when  I  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman  in  front 
of  me  going  up  the  stairs.  Is  it — can  it  be 
Ursula  come  for  the  soul  of  Eunice,  as  she  said 
she  would  ?" 

"Or  for  yours?"  said  Martha,  the  words 
coming  from  her  in  some  odd  fashion,  despite 
herself. 

Tabitha,  with  a  ghastly  look,  fell  cowering 
by  her  side,  clutching  tremulously  at  her 
clothes.  "Light  the  lamps,"  she  cried  hysteri- 
cally. "Light  a  fire,  make  a  noise;  oh,  this 
dreadful  darkness!  Will  it  never  be  day!" 

"Soon,  soon,"  said  Martha,  overcoming  her 
repugnance  and  trying  to  pacify  her.    "When 
the  day  comes  you  will  laugh  at  these  fears." 
148 


The  Three  Sisters 

"I  murdered  her,"  screamed  the  miserable 
woman,  "I  killed  her  with  fright.  Why  did 
she  not  give  me  the  money  ?  'Twas  no  use 
to  her.  Ah  !  Look  there  ! " 

Martha,  with  a  horrible  fear,  followed  her 
glance  to  the  door,  but  saw  nothing. 

"It's  Ursula,'*  said  Tabitha  from  between 
her  teeth.  "Keep  her  off!  Keep  her  off!" 

The  old  woman,  who  by  some  unknown  sense 
seemed  to  feel  the  presence  of  a  third  person 
in  the  room,  moved  a  step  forward  and  stood 
before  her.  As  she  did  so  Tabitha  waved  her 
arms  as  though  to  free  herself  from  the  touch 
of  a  detaining  hand,  half  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
without  a  word  fell  dead  before  her. 

At  this  the  old  woman's  courage  forsook  her, 
and  with  a  great  cry  she  rushed  from  the  room, 
eager  to  escape  from  this  house  of  death  and 
mystery.  The  bolts  of  the  great  door  were 
stiff  with  age,  and  strange  voices  seemed  to 
ring  in  her  ears  as  she  strove  wildly  to  unfasten 
them.  Her  brain  whirled.  She  thought  that 
the  dead  in  their  distant  rooms  called  to  her, 
149 


The  Three  Sisters 

and  that  a  devil  stood  on  the  step  outside 
laughing  and  holding  the  door  against  her. 
Then  ,with  a  supreme  effort  she  flung  it  open, 
and  heedless  of  her  night-clothes  passed  into 
the  bitter  night.  The  path  across  the  marshes 
was  lost  in  the  darkness,  but  she  found  it;  the 
planks  over  the  ditches  slippery  and  narrow, 
but  she  crossed  them  in  safety,  until  at  last, 
her  feet  bleeding  and  her  breath  coming  in 
great  gasps,  she  entered  the  village  and  sank 
down  more  dead  than  alive  on  a  cottage  door- 
step. 


ISO 


THE  UNKNOWN 


The   Unknown 

"  T  T  ANDSOME  is  as  'andsome  does,"  said 
•*•  -*•  the  night-watchman.  It's  an  old 
saying,  but  it's  true.  Give  a  chap  good  looks, 
and  it's  precious  little  else  that  is  given  to  'im. 
He's  lucky  when  'is  good  looks  'ave  gorn — 
or  partly  gorn — to  get  a  berth  as  night-watch- 
man or  some  other  hard  and  bad-paid  job. 

One  drawback  to  a  good-looking  man  is 
that  he  generally  marries  young;  not  because 
'e  wants  to,  but  because  somebody  else  wants 
'im  to.  And  that  ain't  the  worst  of  it:  the 
handsomest  chap  I  ever  knew  married  five 
times,  and  got  seven  years  for  it.  It  wasn't 
his  fault,  pore  chap;  he  simply  couldn't  say 
No. 

One  o'  the  best-looking  men  I  ever  knew 
was  Cap'n  Bill  Smithers,  wot  used  to  come 
153 


The  Unknown 

up  here  once  a  week  with  a  schooner  called 
the  Wild  Rose.  Funny  thing  about  'im  was 
he  didn't  seem  to  know  about  'is  good  looks, 
and  he  was  one  o'  the  quietest,  best-behaved 
men  that  ever  came  up  the  London  river. 
Considering  that  he  was  mistook  for  me  more 
than  once,  it  was  just  as  well. 

He  didn't  marry  until  'e  was  close  on  forty; 
and  then  'e  made  the  mistake  of  marrying  a 

widder-woman.     She  was  like  all  the  rest  of 

• 

i'em — only  worse.  Afore  she  was  married 
butter  wouldn't  melt  in  'er  mouth,  but  as 
soon  as  she  'ad  got  her  "lines"  safe  she  began 
to  make  up  for  it. 

For  the  fust  month  or  two  *e  didn't  mind  it, 

('e  rather  liked  being  fussed  arter,  but  when 
he  found  that  he  couldn't  go  out  for  arf  an 
hour  without  having  'er  with  'im  he  began  to 
get  tired  of  it.  Her  idea  was  that  'e  was  too 
handsome  to  be  trusted  out  alone;  and  every 
trip  he  made  'e  had  to  write  up  in  a  book,  day 
by  day,  wot  'e  did  with  himself.  Even  then 
she  wasn't  satisfied,  and,  arter  saying  that  a 
154 


The  Unknown 

wife's  place  was  by  the  side  of  'er  husband, 
she  took  to  sailing  with  'im  every  v'y'ge. 

Wot  he  could  ha'  seen  in  'er  I  don't  know. 
I  asked  'im  one  evening — in  a  roundabout 
way — and  he  answered  in  such  a  long,  round- 
about way  that  I  didn't  know  wot  to  make 
of  it  till  I  see  that  she  was  standing  just  behind 
me,  listening.  Arter  that  I  heard  'er  asking 
questions  about  me,  but  I  didn't  'ave  to 
listen:  I  could  hear  'er  twenty  yards  away, 
and  singing  to  myself  at  the  same  time. 

Arter  that  she  treated  me  as  if  I  was  the 
dirt  beneath  'er  feet.  She  never  spoke  to 
me,  but  used  to  speak  against  me  to  other 
people.  She  was  always  talking  to  them 
about  the  "sleeping-sickness"  and  things  o* 
that  kind.  She  said  night-watchmen  always 
made  'er  think  of  it  somehow,  but  she  didn't 
know  why,  and  she  couldn't  tell  you  if  you 
was  to  ask  her.  The  only  thing  I  was  thank- 
ful for  was  that  I  wasn't  'er  husband.  She 
stuck  to  'im  like  his  shadow,  and  I  began  to 
think  at  last  it  was  a  pity  she  'adn't  got  some- 
155 


The  Unknown 

thing  to  be  jealous  about  and  something  to 
occupy  her  mind  with  instead  o'  me. 

"She  ought  to  'ave  a  lesson,"  I  ses  to  the 
skipper  one  evening.  "Are  you  going  to  be 
follered  about  like  this  all  your  life  ?  If  she 
was  made  to  see  the  foolishness  of  'er  ways  she 
might  get  sick  of  it." 

My  idea  was  to  send  her  on  a  wild-goose 
chase,  and  while  the  Wild  Rose  was  away  I 
thought  it  out.  I  wrote  a  love-letter  to  the 
skipper  signed  with  the  name  of  "Dorothy," 
and  asked  'im  to  meet  me  at  Cleopatra's 
Needle  on  the  Embankment  at  eight  o'clock 
on  Wednesday.  I  told  'im  to  look  out  for  a 
tall  girl  (Mrs.  Smithers  was  as  short  as  they 
make  *em)  with  mischievous  brown  eyes,  in  a 
blue  'at  with  red  roses  on  it. 

I  read  it  over  careful,  and  arter  marking  it 
"Private,"  twice  in  front  and  once  on  the 
back,  I  stuck  it  down  so  that  it  could  be  blown 
open  a'most,  and  waited  for  the  schooner  to 
come  back.  Then  I  gave  a  van-boy  twopence 
to  'and  it  to  Mrs.  Smithers,  wot  was  sitting  on 
156 


The  Unknown 

the  deck  alone,  and  tell  'er  it  was  a  letter  for 
Captain  Smithers. 

I  was  busy  with  a  barge  wot  happened  to 
be  handy  at  the  time,  but  I  'card  her  say 
that  she  would  take  it  and  give  it  to  'im. 
When  I  peeped  round  she  'ad  got  the  letter 
open  and  was  leaning  over  the  side  to  wind'ard 
trying  to  get  'er  breath.  Every  now  and 
then  she'd  give  another  look  at  the  letter 
and  open  'er  mouth  and  gasp;  but  by  and 
by  she  got  calmer,  and,  arter  putting  it  back 
in  the  envelope,  she  gave  it  a  lick  as  though 
she  was  going  to  bite  it,  and  stuck  it  down 
agin.  Then  she  went  off  the  wharf,  and  I'm 
blest  if,  five  minutes  arterwards,  a  young  fellow 
didn't  come  down  to  the  ship  with  the  same 
letter  and  ask  for  the  skipper. 

"Who  gave  it  you?"  ses  the  skipper,  as 
soon  as  'e  could  speak. 

"A  lady,"  ses  the  young  fellow. 

The  skipper  waved  'im  away,  and  then  'e 
walked  up  and  down  the  deck  like  a  man  in  a 
dream. 

157 


The  Unknown 

"Bad  news  ?"  I  ses,  looking  up  and  catching 
'is  eye. 

"No,"  he  ses,  "no.  Only  a  note  about  a 
couple  o'  casks  o'  soda." 

He  stuffed  the  letter  in  'is  pocket  and  sat 
on  the  side  smoking  till  his  wife  came  back  in 
five  minutes'  time,  smiling  all  over  with  good 
temper. 

"It's  a  nice  evening,"  she  ses,  "and  I  think 
I'll  just  run  over  to  Dalston  and  see  my 
Cousin  Joe." 

The  skipper  got  up  like  a  lamb  and  said 
he'd  go  and  dean  'imself. 

"You  needn't  come  if  you  feel  tired,"  she 
ses,  smiling  at  'im. 

The  skipper  could  'ardly  believe  his  ears. 

"I  do  feel  tired,"  he  ses.  "I've  had  a 
heavy  day,  and  I  feel  more  like  bed  than 
anything  else." 

"You  turn  in,  then,"  she  ses.  "I'll  be  all 
right  by  myself." 

She  went  down  and  tidied  herself  up — not 
that  it  made  much  difference  to  'er — and, 
158 


The  Unknown 

arter  patting  him  on  the  arm  and  giving  me 
a  stare  that  would  ha'  made  most  men  blink, 
she  took  herself  off. 

I  was  pretty  busy  that  evening.  Wot  with 
shifting  lighters  from  under  the  jetty  and 
sweeping  up,  it  was  pretty  near  ha'-past  seven 
afore  I  'ad  a  minute  I  could  call  my  own.  I 
put  down  the  broom  at  last,  and  was  just 
thinking  of  stepping  round  to  the  Bull's  Head 
for  a  'arf-pint  when  I  see  Cap'n  Smithers  come 
off  the  ship  on  to  the  wharf  and  walk  to  the 
gate. 

"I  thought  you  was  going  to  turn  in?"  I 
ses. 

"I  did  think  of  it,"  he  ses,  "then  I  thought 
pYaps  I'd  better  stroll  as  far  as  Broad  Street 
and  meet  my  wife." 

It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  a  straight  face. 
I'd  a  pretty  good  idea  where  she  'ad  gorn; 
and  it  wasn't  Dalston. 

"Come  in  and  'ave  'arf  a  pint  fust,"  I  ses. 

"No;   I  shall  be  late,"  he  ses,  hurrying  off. 

I  went  in  and  'ad  a  glass  by  myself,  and 
159 


The  Unknown 

stood  there  so  long  thinking  of  Mrs.  Smithers 
walking  up  and  down  by  Cleopatra's  Needle 
that  at  last  the  landlord  fust  asked  me  wot 
I  was  laughing  at,  and  then  offered  to  make 
me  laugh  the  other  side  of  my  face.  And 
then  he  wonders  why  people  go  to  the  Albion. 

I  locked  the  gate  rather  earlier  than  usual 
that  night.  Sometimes  if  I'm  up  that  end 
I  leave  it  a  bit  late,  but  I  didn't  want  Mrs. 
Smithers  to  come  along  and  nip  in  without 
me  seeing  her  face. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  afore  I  heard  the  bell 
go,  and  when  I  opened  the  wicket  and  looked 
out  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  she  'ad  got 
the  skipper  with  'er.  And  of  all  the  miserable- 
looking  objects  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  he  was 
the  worst.  She  'ad  him  tight  by  the  arm,  and 
there  was  a  look  on  'er  face  that  a'most  scared 
me. 

"Did  you  go  all  the  way  to  Dalston  for 
her  ?"  I  ses  to  'im. 

Mrs.  Smithers  made  a  gasping  sort  o* 
noise,  but  the  skipper  didn't  answer  a  word. 
160 


The  Unknown 

She  shoved  him  in  in  front  of  'er  and  stood 
over  'im  while  he  climbed  aboard.  When  he 
held  out  'is  hand  to  help  'er  she  struck  it  away. 

I  didn't  get  word  with  'im  till  five  o'clock 
next  morning,  when  he  came  up  on  deck  with 
his  'air  all  rough  and  'is  eyes  red  for  want  of 
sleep. 

"Haven't  'ad  a  wink  all  night,"  he  ses, 
stepping  on  to  the  wharf. 

I  gave  a  little  cough.  "Didn't  she  'ave  a 
pleasant  time  at  Dalston  ?"  I  ses. 

He  walked  a  little  further  off  from  the  ship, 
"She  didn't  go  there,"  he  ses,  in  a  whisper. 

"You've  got  something  on  your  mind,"  I 
ses.  "Wot  is  it?" 

He  wouldn't  tell  me  at  fust,  but  at  last  he 
told  me  all  about  the  letter  from  Dorothy, 
and  'is  wife  reading  it  unbeknown  to  'im  and 
going  to  meet  'er. 

"It  was  an  awful  meeting!"  he  ses.  "Aw- 
ful!" 

I  couldn't  think  wot  to  make  of  it.     "Was 
the  gal  there,  then?"  I  ses,  staring  at  'im. 
161 


The  Unknown 

"No,"  ses  the  skipper;    "but  I  was." 

"You?"  I  ses,  starting  back.  "You! 
Wot  for  ?  I'm  surprised  at  you  !  I  wouldn't 
ha*  believed  it  of  you  !" 

"I  felt  a  bit  curious,"  he  ses,  with  a  silly 
sort  o'  smile.  "But  wot  I  can't  understand 
is  why  the  gal  didn't  turn  up." 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Bill,"  I  ses,  very 
severe. 

"P'r'aps  she  did,"  he  ses,  'arf  to  'imself, 
"and  then  saw  my  missis  standing  there 
waiting.  P'r'aps  that  was  it." 

"Or  p'r'aps  it  was  somebody  'aving  a  game 
with  you,"  I  ses. 

"You're  getting  old,  Bill,"  he  ses,  very 
short.  "You  don't  understand.  It's  some 
pore  gal  that's  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  it's 
my  dooty  to  meet  'er  and  tell  her  'ow  things 
are." 

He  walked  off  with  his  'ead  in  the  air,  and 
if  'e  took  that  letter  out  once  and  looked  at 
it,  he  did  five  times. 

"Chuck  it  away,"  I  ses,  going  up  to  him. 
162 


The  Unknown 

"Certainly  not,"  he  ses,  folding  it  up 
careful  and  stowing  it  away  in  'is  breast- 
pocket. "She's  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  it's 
my  dooty " 

"You  said  that  afore,"  I  ses. 

He  stared  at  me  nasty  for  a  moment,  and 
then  'e  ses:  "You  ain't  seen  any  young  lady 
hanging  about  'ere,  I  suppose,  Bill  ?  A  tall 
young  lady  with  a  blue  hat  trimmed  with 
red  roses  ?" 

I  shook  my  'ead. 

"If  you  should  see  "er "  he  ses. 

"I'll  tell  your  missis,"  I  ses.  "It  'ud  be 
much  easier  for  her  to  do  her  dooty  properly 
than  it  would  you.  She'd  enjoy  doing  it,  too." 

He  went  off  agin  then,  and  I  thought  he 
'ad  done  with  me,  but  he  'adn't.  He  spoke 
to  me  that  evening  as  if  I  was  the  greatest 
friend  he  'ad  in  the  world.  I  'ad  two  'arf- 
pints  with  'im  at  the  Albion — with  his  missis 
walking  up  and  down  outside — and  arter  the 
second  'arf-pint  he  said  he  wanted  to  meet 
Dorothy  and  tell  'er  that  'e  was  married,  and 
163 


The  Unknown 

that  he  'oped  she  would  meet  some  good  man 
that  was  worthy  of  *er. 

I  had  a  week's  peace  while  the  ship  was 
away,  but  she  was  hardly  made  fast  afore  I 
'ad  it  all  over  agin  and  agin. 

"Are  you  sure  there's  been  no  more  letters  ?" 
he  ses. 

"Sartain,"  I  ses. 

"That's  right,"  he  ses;  "that's  right.  And 
you  'aven't  seen  her  walking  up  and  down  ?" 

"No,"  I  ses. 

'  'Ave  you  been  on  the  look-out?"  he  ses. 
"I  don't  suppose  a  nice  gal  like  that  would 
come  and  shove  her  'ead  in  at  the  gate.  Did 
you  look  up  and  down  the  road  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  ses.  "I've  fair  made  my  eyes 
ache  watching  for  her." 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  he  ses.  "It's  a 
mystery  to  me,  unless  p'r'aps  she's  been  taken 
ill.  She  must  'ave  seen  me  here  in  the  fust 
place;  and  she  managed  to  get  hold  of  my 
name.  Mark  my  words,  I  shall  'ear  from  her 
agin." 

164   . 


The  Unknown 

"  'Ow  do  you  know  ?"  I  ses. 

"I  feel  it  'ere,"  he  ses,  very  solemn,  laying 
his  'and  on  his  chest. 

I  didn't  know  wot  to  do.  Wot  with  'is 
foolishness  and  his  missis's  temper,  I  see  I  'ad 
made  a  mess  of  it.  He  told  me  she  had  'ardly 
spoke  a  word  to  'im  for  two  days,  and  when  I 
said — being  a  married  man  myself — that  it 
might  ha'  been  worse,  'e  said  I  didn't  know 
wot  I  was  talking  about. 

I  did  a  bit  o'  thinking  arter  he  'ad  gorn 
aboard  agin.  I  dursn't  tell  'im  that  I  'ad 
wrote  the  letter,  but  I  thought  if  he  'ad  one 
or  two  more  he'd  see  that  some  one  was  'aving 
a  game  with  'im,  and  that  it  might  do  'im  good. 
Besides  which  it  was  a  little  amusement  for  me. 

Arter  everybody  was  in  their  beds  asleep  I 
sat  on  a  clerk's  stool  in  the  office  and  wrote 
'im  another  letter  from  Dorothy.  I  called 
'im  "Dear  Bill,"  and  I  said  'ow  sorry  I  was 
that  I  'adn't  had  even  a  sight  of  'im  lately, 
having  been  laid  up  with  a  sprained  ankle 
and  'ad  only  just  got  about  agin.  I  asked 


*im  to  meet  me  at  Cleopatra's  Needle  at 
eight  o'clock,  and  said  that  I  should  wear  the 
blue  'at  with  red  roses. 

It  was  a  very  good  letter,  but  I  can  see 
now  that  I  done  wrong  in  writing  it.  I  was 
going  to  post  it  to  'im,  but,  as  I  couldn't  find 
an  envelope  without  the  name  of  the  blessed 
wharf  on  it,  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  till  I  got 
'ome. 

I  got  'ome  at  about  a  quarter  to  seven,  and 
slept  like  a  child  till  pretty  near  four.  Then 
I  went  downstairs  to  'ave  my  dinner. 

The  moment  I  opened  the  door  I  see  there 
was  something  wrong.  Three  times  my  missis 
licked  'er  lips  afore  she  could  speak.  Her 
face  'ad  gone  a  dirty  white  colour,  and  she  was 
leaning  forward  with  her  'ands  on  her  'ips, 
trembling  all  over  with  temper. 

"Is  my  dinner  ready?"  I  ses,  easy-like. 
"  'Cos  I'm  ready  for  it." 

"I — I  wonder  I  don't  tear  you  limb  from 
limb,"  she  ses,  catching  her  breath. 

"Wot's  the  matter?"  I  ses. 
166 


The  Unknown 

"And  then  boil  you,"  she  ses,  between  her 
teeth.  "You  in  one  pot  and  your  precious 
Dorothy  in  another." 

If  anybody  'ad  offered  me  five  pounds  to 
speak  then,  I  couldn't  ha'  done  it.  I  see 
wot  I'd  done  in  a  flash,  and  I  couldn't  say  a 
word;  but  I  kept  my  presence  o'  mind,  and 
as  she  came  round  one  side  o'  the  table  I 
went  round  the  other. 

"Wot  'ave  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?" 
she  ses,  with  a  scream. 

"Nothing,"  I  ses,  at  last.  "It's  all  a 
mistake." 

"Mistake?"  she  ses.  "Yes,  you  made  a 
mistake  leaving  it  in  your  pocket;  that's  all 
the  mistake  you've  made.  That's  wot  you 
do,  is  it,  when  you're  supposed  to  be  at  the 
wharf?  Go  about  with  a  blue  'at  with  red 
roses  in  it !  At  your  time  o'  life,  and  a  wife 
at  'ome  working  herself  to  death  to  make  both 
ends  meet  and  keep  you  respectable!" 

"It's  all  a  mistake,"  I  ses.  "The  letter 
wasn't  for  me." 

167 


The  Unknown 

"Oh,  no,  o'  course  not,"  she  ses.  "That's 
why  you'd  got  it  in  your  pocket,  I  suppose. 
And  I  suppose  you'll  say  your  name  ain't  Bill 
next/' 

"Don't  say  things  you'll  be  sorry  for,"  I 
ses. 

"I'll  take  care  o'  that,"  she  ses.  "I  might 
be  sorry  for  not  saying  some  things,  but  I 
don't  think  I  shall." 

I  don't  think  she  was.  I  don't  think  she 
forgot  anything,  and  she  raked  up  things  that 
I  'ad  contradicted  years  ago  and  wot  I  thought 
was  all  forgot.  And  every  now  and  then, 
when  she  stopped  for  breath,  she'd  try  and 
get  round  to  the  same  side  of  the  table  I  was. 

She  follered  me  to  the  street  door  when  I 
went  and  called  things  up  the  road  arter  me. 
I  'ad  a  snack  at  a  coffee-shop  for  my  dinner, 
but  I  'adn't  got  much  appetite  for  it;  I  was 
too  full  of  trouble  and  finding  fault  with 
myself,  and  I  went  off  to  my  work  with  a 
'art  as  heavy  as  lead. 

I  suppose  I  'adn't  been  on  the  wharf  ten 
168 


The  Unknown 

minutes  afore  Cap'n  Smithers  came  sidling 
up  to  me,  but  I  got  my  spoke  in  fust. 

"Look  'ere,"  I  ses,  "if  you're  going  to  talk 
about  that  forward  hussy  wot's  been  writing 
to  you,  I  ain't.  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  'er." 

"Forward  hussy!"  he  ses.  "Forward 
hussy!"  And  afore  I  could  drop  my  broom 
he  gave  me  a  punch  in  the  jaw  that  pretty 
near  broke  it.  "Say  another  word  against 
her,"  he  ses,  "and  I'll  knock  your  ugly  'ead 
off.  How  dare  you  insult  a  lady  ?" 

I  thought  I  should  'ave  gone  crazy  at  fust, 
but  I  went  off  into  the  office  without  a  word. 
Some  men  would  ha'  knocked  'im  down  for 
it,  but  I  made  allowances  for  'is  state  o'  mind, 
and  I  stayed  inside  until  I  see  'im  get  aboard 
agin. 

He  was  sitting  on  deck  when  I  went  out, 
and  his  missis  too,  but  neither  of  'em  spoke  a 
word.  I  picked  up  my  broom  and  went  on 
sweeping,  when  suddenly  I  'card  a  voice  at  the 
gate  I  thought  I  knew,  and  in  came  my  wife. 

"Ho!"  she  ses,  calling  out.  "Ain't  you 
169 


The  Unknown 

gone  to  meet  that  gal  at  Cleopatra's  Needle 
yet  ?  You  ain't  going  to  keep  'er  waiting, 
are  you  ? " 

"H'sh!"  I  ses. 

"H'sh  I  yourself,"  she  ses,  shouting.  "I've 
done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  /  don't  go 
to  meet  other  people's  husbands  in  a  blue  'at 
with  red  roses.  /  don't  write  'em  love-letters, 
and  say  'H'sh  .' '  to  my  wife  when  she  ventures 
to  make  a  remark  about  it.  I  may  work  my- 
self to  skin  and  bone  for  a  man  wot's  old 
enough  to  know  better,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
be  trod  on.  Dorothy,  indeed !  I'll  Dorothy 
fer  if  I  get  the  chance." 

Mrs.  Smithers,  wot  'ad  been  listening  with  all 
her  ears,  jumped  up,  and  so  did  the  skipper,  and 
Mrs.  Smithers  came  to  the  side  in  two  steps. 

"Did  you  say  'Dorothy/  ma'am?"  she 
ses  to  my  missis. 

"I  did,"  ses  my  wife.  "She's  been  writing 
to  my  husband." 

"It  must  be  the  same  one,"  ses  Mrs. 
Smithers,  "She's  been  writing  to  mine  too." 
170 


The  Unknown 

The  two  of  'em  stood  there  looking  at  each 
other  for  a  minute,  and  then  my  wife,  holding 
the  letter  between  'er  finger  and  thumb  as  if 
it  was  pison,  passed  it  to  Mrs.  Smithers. 

"It's  the  same,"  ses  Mrs.  Smithers.  "Was 
the  envelope  marked  'Private'  ?" 

"I  didn't  see  no  envelope,"  ses  my  missis. 
"This  is  all  I  found." 

Mrs.  Smithers  stepped  on  to  the  wharf  and, 
taking  'old  of  my  missis  by  the  arm,  led  her 
away  whispering.  At  the  same  moment  the 
skipper  walked  across  the  deck  and  whispered 
to  me. 

"Wot  d'ye  mean  by  it?"  he  ses.  "Wot 
d'ye  mean  by  'aving  letters  from  Dorothy  and 
not  telling  me  about  it?" 

"I  can't  help  'aving  letters  any  more  than 
you  can,"  I  ses.  "Now  p'r'aps  you'll  under- 
stand wot  I  meant  by  calling  'er  a  forward 
hussy." 

"Fancy  'er  writing  to  you !"  he  ses,  wrink- 
ling''is  forehead.  " Pph  !  She  must  be  crazy." 

"P'r'aps  it  ain't  a  gal  at  all,"  I  ses.  "My 
171 


The  Unknown 

belief  is   somebody   is    'aving    a   game   with 
us." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  ses.  "I'd  like  to 
see  the  party  as  would  make  a  fool  of  me  like 
that.  Just  see  'im  and  get  my  'ands  on 
him.  He  wouldn't  want  to  play  any  more 
games." 

It  was  no  good  talking  to  'im.  He  was 
'arf  crazy  with  temper.  If  I'd  said  the  letter 
was  meant  for  'im  he'd  'ave  asked  me  wot  I 
meant  by  opening  it  and  getting  'im  into 
more  trouble  with  'is  missis,  instead  of  giving 
it  to  'im  on  the  quiet.  I  just  stood  and 
suffered  in  silence,  and  thought  wot  a  lot  of 
'arm  eddication  did  for  people. 

"I  want  some  money,"  ses  my  missis, 
coming  back  at  last  with  Mrs.  Smithers. 

That  was  the  way  she  always  talked  when 
she'd  got  me  in  'er  power.  She  took  two-and- 
tenpence — all  I'd  got — and  then  she  ordered 
me  to  go  and  get  a  cab. 

"Me  and  this  lady  are  going  to  meet  her," 
she  ses,  sniffing  at  me. 
172 


The  Unknown 

"And  tell  her  wot  we  think  of  *er,"  ses 
Mrs.  Smithers,  sniffing  too. 

"And  wot  we'll  do  to  'er,"  ses  my  missis. 

I  left  'em  standing  side  by  side,  looking  at 
the  skipper  as  if  'e  was  a  waxworks,  while  I 
went  to  find  a  cab.  When  I  came  back  they 
was  in  the  same  persition,  and  'e  was  smoking 
with  'is  eyes  shut. 

They  went  off  side  by  side  in  the  cab,  both 
of  'em  sitting  bolt-upright,  and  only  turning 
their  'eads  at  the  last  moment  to  give  us  looks 
we  didn't  want. 

"I  don't  wish  her  no  'arm,"  ses  the  skipper, 
arter  thinking  for  a  long  time.  "Was  that 
the  fust  letter  you  'ad  from  'er,  Bill  ? " 

"Fust  and  last,"  I  ses,  grinding  my  teeth. 

"I  hope  they  won't  meet  'er,  pore  thing,'* 
he  ses. 

"I've  been  married  longer  than  wot  you 
have,"  I  ses,  "and  I  tell  you  one  thing.  It 
won't  make  no  difference  to  us  whether  they 
do  or  they  don't,"  I  ses. 

And  it  didn't. 

173 


THE  VIGIL 


The  Vigil 

ippiest  man  in  tl 
Mr.  Farrer,  in  accents  of  dreamy  tender- 


"T'M  the  happiest  man  in  the  world,"  said 


ness. 

Miss  Ward  sighed.  "Wait  till  father  comes 
in,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Farrer  peered  through  the  plants  which 
formed  a  welcome  screen  to  the  window  and 
listened  with  some  uneasiness.  He  was  wait- 
ing for  the  firm,  springy  step  that  should 
herald  the  approach  of  ex-Sergeant-Ma'jor 
Ward.  A  squeeze  of  Miss  Ward's  hand  renewed 
his  courage. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  light  the  lamp,"  said 
the  girl,  after  a  long  pause.  "I  wonder  where 
mother's  got  to  ? " 

"She's  on  my  side,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mr. 
Farrer. 

177 


The  Vigil 

"Poor  mother!'*  said  the  girl.  "She 
daren't  call  her  soul  her  own.  I  expect  she's 
sitting  in  her  bedroom  with  the  door  shut. 
She  hates  unpleasantness.  And  there's  sure 
to  be  some." 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a 
slight  shiver.  "But  why  should  there  be 
any  ?  He  doesn't  want  you  to  keep  single 
all  your  life,  does  he?" 

"He'd  like  me  to  marry  a  soldier,"  said 
Miss  Ward.  "He  says  that  the  young  men 
of  the  present  day  are  too  soft.  The  only 
thing  he  thinks  about  is  courage  and  strength." 

She  rose  and,  placing  the  lamp  on  the  table, 
removed  the  chimney,  and  then  sought  round 
the  room  for  the  matches.  Mr.  Farrer,  who 
had  two  boxes  in  his  pocket,  helped  her. 

They  found  a  box  at  last  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  Mr.  Farrer  steadied  her  by  placing 
one  arm  round  her  waist  while  she  lit  the 
lamp.  A  sudden  exclamation  from  outside 
reminded  them  that  the  blind  was  not  yet 
drawn,  and  they  sprang  apart  in  dismay  as  a 
178 


The  Vigil 

grizzled  and  upright  old  warrior  burst  into 
the  room  and  confronted  them. 

"Pull  that  blind  down!"  he  roared.  "Not 
you,"  he  continued,  as  Mr.  Farrer  hastened  to 
help.  "What  do  you  mean  by  touching  my 
blind  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  embracing 
my  daughter  ?  Eh  ?  Why  don't  you  answer  ?" 

"We — we  are  going  to  be  married,**  said 
Mr.  Farrer,  trying  to  speak  boldly. 

The  sergeant-major  drew  himself  up,  and 
the  young  man  gazed  in  dismay  at  a  chest 
which  seemed  as  though  it  would  never  cease 
expanding. 

"  Married  ! "  exclaimed  the  sergeant-major, 
with  a  grim  laugh.  "Married  to  a  little  tame 
bunny-rabbit !  Not  if  I  know  it.  Where's 
your  mother?"  he  demanded,  turning  to  the 
girl. 

"Upstairs,"  was  the  reply. 

Her  father  raised  his  voice,  and  a  nervous 
reply  came  from  above.  A  minute  later  Mrs. 
Ward,  pale  of  cheek,  entered  the  room. 

"Here's  fine  goings-on!"  said  the  sergeant- 
179 


The  Vigil 

major,  sharply.  "I  go  for  a  little  walk,  and 
when  I  come  back  this — this  infernal  cock- 
roach has  got  its  arm  round  my  daughter's 
waist.  Why  don't  you  look  after  her  ?  Do 
you  know  anything  about  it  ?" 

His  wife  shook  her  head. 

"Five  feet  four  and  about  thirty  round  the 
chest,  and  wants  to  marry  my  daughter !"  said 
the  sergeant-major,  with  a  sneer.  "  Eh  ? 
What's  that?  What  did  you  say?  What?" 

"I  said  that's  a  pretty  good  size  for  a  cock- 
roach," murmured  Mr.  Farrer,  defiantly.  "  Be- 
sides, size  isn't  everything.  If  it  was,  you'd 
be  a  general  instead  of  only  a  sergeant- 
major." 

"You  get  out  of  my  house,"  said  the  other, 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  his  breath.  "Go  on! 
Sharp  with  it." 

"I'm  going/'  said  the  mortified  Mr.  Farrer. 
"I'm  sorry  if  I  was  rude.  I  came  on  purpose 
to  see  you  to-night.  Bertha — Miss  Ward,  I 
mean — told  me  your  ideas,  but  I  couldn't 
believe  her.  I  said  you'd  got  more  common 
1 80 


The  Vigil 

sense  than  to  object  to  a  man  just  because  he 
wasn't  a  soldier." 

"I  want  a  man  for  a  son-in-law,"  said  the 
other.  "I  don't  say  he's  got  to  be  a 
soldier." 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Farrer.  "You're  a 
man,  ain't  you  ?  Well,  I'll  do  anything  that 
you'll  do." 

"PAA/"  said  the  sergeant-major.  "I've 
done  my  little  lot.  I've  been  in  action  four 
times,  and  wounded  in  three  places.  That's 
my  tally." 

"The  colonel  said  once  that  my  husband 
doesn't  know  what  fear  is,"  said  Mrs.  Ward, 
timidly.  "He's  afraid  of  nothing." 

"Except  ghosts,"  remarked  her  daughter, 
softly. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  miss,"  said  her  father, 
twisting  his  moustache.  "No  sensible  man 
is  afraid  of  what  doesn't  exist." 

"A  lot  of  people  believe  they  do,  though," 
said  Mr.  Farrer,  breaking  in.  "I  heard  the 
other  night  that  old  Smith's  ghost  has  been 
181 


The  Vigil 

seen    again    swinging    from    the    apple    tree. 
Three  people  have  seen  it." 

"Rubbish!"   said  the  sergeant-major. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  young  man;  "but  I'll 
bet  you,  Mr.  Ward,  for  all  your  courage,  that 
you  won't  go  up  there  alone  at  twelve  o'clock 
one  night  to  see." 

"I  thought  I  ordered  you  out  of  my  house 
just  now,"  said  the  sergeant-major,  glaring  at 
him. 

"Going  into  action,"  said  Mr.  Farrer, 
pausing  at  the  door,  "is  one  thing — you  have 
to  obey  orders  and  you  can't  help  yourself; 
but  going  to  a  lonely  cottage  two  miles  off  to 
see  the  ghost  of  a  man  that  hanged  himself  is 
another." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  I'm  afraid?"  blus- 
tered the  other. 

Mr.  Farrer  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  say 
anything,"  he  remarked;  "but  even  a  cock- 
roach does  a  bit  of  thinking  sometimes." 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  go,"  said  the  sergeant- 
major. 

182 


The  Vigil 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  the  young  man;  "and 
perhaps  you'll  think  a  little  better  of  me,  Mr. 
Ward.  If  I  do  what  you're  afraid  to  do 

Mrs.  Ward  and  her  daughter  flung  them- 
selves hastily  between  the  sergeant-major  and 
his  intended  sacrifice.  Mr.  Farrer,  pale  but 
determined,  stood  his  ground. 

"I'll  dare  you  to  go  up  and  spend  a  night 
there  alone,"  he  said. 

"I'll  dare  you,"  said  the  incensed  warrior, 
weakly. 

"All  right;  I'll  spend  Wednesday  night 
there,"  said  Mr.  Farrer,  "and  I'll  come  round 
on  Thursday  and  let  you  knbw  how  I  got  on." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  the  other;  "but  I  don't 
want  you  here,  and,  what's  more,  I  won't  have 
you.  You  can  go  to  Smith's  cottage  on 
Wednesday  at  twelve  o'clock  if  you  like,  and 
I'll  go  up  any  time  between  twelve  and  three 
and  make  sure  you're  there.  D'ye  understand  ? 
I'll  show  you  whether  I'm  afraid  or  not." 

"There's  no  reason  for  you  to  be  afraid," 
said  Mr.  Farrer.  "I  shall  be  there  to  protect 
.83 


The  Vigil 

you.  That's  very  different  to  being  there 
alone,  as  I  shall  be.  But,  of  course,  you  can 
go  up  the  next  night  by  yourself,  and  wait 
for  me,  if  you  like.  If  you  like  to  prove  your 
courage,  I  mean." 

"When  I  want  to  be  ordered  about,'*  said 
the  sergeant-major,  in  a  magnificent  voice, 
"I'll  let  you  know.  Now  go,  before  I  do  any- 
thing I  might  be  sorry  for  afterwards." 

He  stood  at  the  door,  erect  as  a  ramrod, 
and  watched  the  young  man  up  the  road. 
His  conversation  at  the  supper-table  that 
night  related  almost  entirely  to  puppy-dogs 
and  the  best  way*  of  training  them. 

He  kept  a  close  eye  upon  his  daughter  for 
the  next  day  or  two,  but  human  nature  has 
its  limits.  He  tried  to  sleep  one  afternoon 
in  his  easy-chair  with  one  eye  open,  but  the 
exquisite  silence  maintained  by  Miss  Ward 
was  too  much  for  it.  A  hum  of  perfect  content 
arose  from  the  feature  below,  and  five  minutes 
later  Miss  Ward  was  speeding  in  search  of 
Mr.  Farrer. 

184 


The  Vigil 

i 

"I  had  to  come,  Ted,"  she  said,  breathlessly, 
"because  to-morrow's  Wednesday.  I've  got 
something  to  tell  you,  but  I  don't  know  whether 
I  ought  to." 

"Tell  me  and  let  me  decide,"  said  Mr. 
Fairer,  tenderly. 

"I — I'm  so  afraid  you  might  be  frightened," 
said  the  girl.  "I  won't  tell  you,  but  I'll  give 
you  a  hint.  If  you  see  anything  awful,  don't 
be  frightened." 

Mr.  Farrer  stroked  her  hand.  "The  only 
thing  I'm  afraid  of  is  your  father,"  he  said, 
softly. 

"Oh!"  said  the  girl,  clasping  her  hands 
together.  "You  have  guessed  it." 

"Guessed  it?"  said  Mr.  Farrer. 

Miss  Ward  nodded.  "I  happened  to  pass 
his  door  this  morning,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "It  was  open  a  little  way,  and  he 
was  standing  up  and  measuring  one  of  mother's 
nightgowns  against  his  chest.  I  couldn't  think 
what  he  was  doing  it  for  at  first." 

Mr.  Farrer  whistled  and  his  face  hardened. 
185 


The  Vigil 

"That's  not  fair  play,"  he  said  at  last. 
"All  right;  I'll  be  ready  for  him." 

"He  doesn't  like  to  be  put  in  the  wrong," 
said  Miss  Ward.     "He  wants  to  prove  that 
you  haven't  got  any  courage.     He'd  be  dis- . 
appointed  if  he  found  you  had." 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Farrer  again.  "You're 
an  angel  for  coming  to  tell  me." 

"Father  would  call  me  something  else,  I 
expect,"  said  Miss  Ward,  with  a  smile. 
"Good-bye.  I  want  to  get  back  before  he 
wakes  up." 

She  was  back  in  her  chair,  listening  to  her 
father's  slumbers,  half  an  hour  before  he 
awoke. 

"I'm  making  up  for  to-morrow  night,"  he 
said,  opening  his  eyes  suddenly. 

His  daughter  nodded. 

"Shows  strength  of  will,"  continued  the 
sergeant-major,  amiably.  "Wellington  could 
go  to  sleep  at  any  time  by  just  willing  it.  I'm 
the  same  way;  I  can  go  to  sleep  at  five  minutes' 
notice." 

1 36 


The  Vigil 

"It's  a  very  useful  gift,"  said  Miss  Ward, 
piously,  "very." 

Mr.  Ward  had  two  naps  the  next  day.  He 
awoke  from  the  second  at  twelve-thirty  a.m., 
and  in  a  somewhat  disagreeable  frame  of  mind 
rose  and  stretched  himself.  The  house  was 
very  still.  He  took  a  small  brown-paper  parcel 
from  behind  the  sofa  and,  extinguishing  the 
lamp,  put  on  his  cap  and  opened  the  front 
door. 

If  the  house  was  quiet,  the  little  street 
seemed  dead.  He  closed  the  door  softly  and 
stepped  into  the  darkness.  In  terms  which 
would  have  been  understood  by  "our  army 
in  Flanders"  he  execrated  the  forefathers,  the 
name,  and  the  upbringing  of  Mr.  Edward 
Farrer. 

Not  a  soul  in  the  streets;  not  a  light  in  a 
window.  He  left  the  little  town  behind, 
passed  the  last  isolated  house  on  the  road,  and 
walked  into  the  greater  blackness  of  a  road 
between  tall  hedges.  He  had  put  on  canvas 
shoes  with  rubber  soles,  for  the  better  surprise 
187 


The  Vigil 

of  Mr.  Fairer,  and  his  own  progress  seemed 
to  partake  of  a  ghostly'  nature.  Every  ghost 
story  he  had  ever  heard  or  read  crowded  into 
his  memory.  For  the  first  time  in  his  experi- 
ence even  the  idea  of  the  company  of  Mr. 
Farrer  seemed  better  than  no  company  at  all. 

The  night  was  so  dark  that  he  nearly  missed 
the  turning  that  led  to  the  cottage.  For  the 
first  few  yards  he  had  almost  to  feel  his  way; 
then,  with  a  greater  yearning  than  ever  for 
the  society  of  Mr.  Farrer,  he  straightened  his 
back  and  marched  swiftly  and  noiselessly 
towards  the  cottage. 

It  was  a  small,  tumble-down  place,  set  well 
back  in  an  overgrown  garden.  The  sergeant- 
major  came  to  a  halt  just  before  reaching  the 
gate,  and,  hidden  by  the  hedge,  unfastened 
his  parcel  and  shook  out  his  wife's  best  night- 
gown. 

He  got  it  over  his  head  with  some  difficulty, 
and,  with  his  arms  in  the  sleeves,  tried  in  vain 
to  get  his  big  hands  through  the  small,  lace- 
trimmed  wristbands.  Despite  his  utmost 
1 88 


The  Vigil 

efforts  he  could  only  get  two  or  three  fingers 
through,  and  after  a  vain  search  for  his  cap, 
which  had  fallen  off  in  the  struggle,  he  made 
his  way  to  the  gate  and  stood  there  waiting. 
It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  thought 
occurred  to  him  that  Mr.  Farrer  might  have 
failed  to  keep  the  appointment. 

His  knees  trembled  slightly  and  he  listened 
anxiously  for  any  sound  from  the  house.  He 
rattled  the  gate  and,  standing  with  white 
arms  outstretched,  waited.  Nothing  hap- 
pened. He  shook  it  again,  and  then,  pulling 
himself  together,  opened  it  and  slipped  into 
the  garden.  As  he  did  so  a  large  bough  which 
lay  in  the  centre  of  the  footpath  thoughtfully 
drew  on  one  side  to  let  him  pass. 

Mr.  Ward  stopped  suddenly  and,  with  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  bough,  watched  it  glide  over 
the  grass  until  it  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
darkness.  His  own  ideas  of  frightening  Mr. 
Farrer  were  forgotten,  and  in  a  dry,  choking 
voice  he  called  loudly  upon  the  name  of  that 
gentleman. 

189 


The  Vigil 

He  called  two  or  three  times,  with  no 
response,  and  then,  in  a  state  of  panic,  backed 
slowly  towards  the  gate  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  house.  A  loud  crash  sounded  from 
somewhere  inside,  the  door  was  flung  violently 
open,  and  a  gruesome  figure  in  white  hopped 
out  and  squatted  on  the  step. 

It  was  evident  to  Sergeant-Major  Ward  that 
Mr.  Farrer  was  not  there,  and  that  no  useful 
purpose  could  be  served  by  remaining.  It 
was  clear  that  the  young  man's  courage  had 
failed  him,  and,  with  grey  head  erect,  elbows 
working  like  the  sails  of  a  windmill,  and  the 
ends  of  the  nightgown  streaming  behind  him, 
the1  sergeant-major  bent  his  steps  towards  home. 

He  dropped  into  a  walk  after  a  time  and 
looked  carefully  over  his  shoulder.  So  far 
as  he  could  see  he  was  alone,  but  the  silence 
and  loneliness  were  oppressive.  He  looked 
again,  and,  without  stopping  to  inquire 
whether  his  eyes  had  deceived  him,  broke  into 
a  run  again.  Alternately  walking  and  run- 
ning, he  got  back  to  the  town,  and  walked 
190 


The  Vigil 

swiftly  along  the  streets  to  his  house.  Police- 
Constable  Burgess,  who  was  approaching  from 
the  other  direction,  reached  it  at  almost  the 
same  moment,  and,  turning  on  his  lantern, 
stood  gaping  with  astonishment.  "Anything 
wrong?"  he  demanded. 

"Wrong?"  panted  the  sergeant-major,  try- 
ing to  put  a  little  surprise  and  dignity  into  his 
voice.  "No." 

"I  thought  it  was  a  lady  walking  in  her  sleep 
at  first,"  said  the  constable.  "A  tall  lady." 

The  sergeant-major  suddenly  became  con- 
scious of  the  nightgown.  "I've  been — for  a 
little  walk,"  he  said,  still  breathing  hard.  "I 
felt  a  bit  chilly — so  I — put  this  on." 

"Suits  you,  too,"  said  the  constable,  stiffly. 
"But  you  Army  men  always  was  a  bit  dressy. 
Now  if  7  put  that  on  I  should  look  ridikerlous." 

The  door  opened  before  Mr.  Ward  could 
reply,  and  revealed,  in  the  light  of  a  bedroom 
candle,  the  astonished  countenances  of  his 
wife  and  daughter. 

"George!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ward. 
191 


The  Vigil 

"Father!"  said  Miss  Ward. 

The  sergeant-major  tottered  in  and,  gaining 
the  front  room,  flung  himself  into  his  arm-chair. 
A  stiff  glass  of  whisky  and  water,  handed  him 
by  his  daughter,  was  swallowed  at  a  gulp. 

"Did  you  go?"  inquired  Mrs.  Ward, 
clasping  her  hands. 

The  sergeant-major,  fully  conscious  of  the 
suspicions  aroused  by  his  disordered  appear- 
ance, rallied  his  faculties.  "Not  likely,"  he 
said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "After  I  got  out- 
side I  knew  it  was  no  good  going  there  to 
look  for  that  young  snippet.  He'd  no  more 
think  of  going  there  than  he  would  of  flying. 
I  walked  a  little  way  down  the  road — for 
exercise — and  then  strolled  back." 

"But — my  nightgown?"  said  the  wonder- 
ing Mrs.  Ward. 

"Put  it  on  to  frighten  the  constable,"  said 
her  husband. 

He  stood  up  and  allowed  her  to  help  him 
pull  it  off.  His  face  was  flushed  and  his  hair 
tousled,  but  the  bright  fierceness  of  his  eye 
192 


The  VigU 

was  unquenched.  In  submissive  silence  she 
followed  him  to  bed. 

He  was  up  late  next  morning,  and  made 
but  a  poor  breakfast.  His  after-dinner  nap 
was  disturbed,  and  tea  was  over  before  he 
had  regained  his  wonted  calm.  An  hour 
later  the  arrival  of  a  dignified  and  reproachful 
Mr.  Farrer  set  him  blazing  again. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you  about  last  night," 
said  Mr.  Farrer,  before  the  other  could  speak. 
"A  joke's  a  joke,  but  when  you  said  you 
would  come  I  naturally  expected  you  would 
keep  your  word." 

"Keep  my  word?"  repeated  the  sergeant- 
major,  almost  choking  with  wrath. 

"I  stayed  there  in  that  lonely  cottage  from 
twelve  to  three,  as  per  agreement,  waiting 
for  you,"  said  Mr.  Farrer. 

"You  were  not  there,"  shouted  the  sergeant- 
major. 

"How  do  you  know?"  inquired  the  other. 

The  sergeant-major  looked  round  helplessly 
at  his  wife  and  daughter. 

193 


The  Vigil 

"Prove  it,"  said  Mr.  Farrer,  pushing  his 
advantage.  "You  questioned  my  courage,  and 
I  stayed  there  three  hours.  Where  were  you  ?" 

"You  were  not  there,"  said  the  sergeant- 
major.  "I  know.  You  can't  bluff  me.  You 
were  afraid." 

"I  was  there,  and  I'll  swear  it,"  said  Mr. 
Farrer.  "Still,  there's  no  harm  done.  I'll 
go  there  again  to-night,  and  I'll  dare  you  to 
come  for  me  ?" 

"Dare?"  said  the  sergeant-major,  choking. 
"Dare?" 

"Dare,"  repeated  the  other;  "and  if  you 
don't  come  this  time  I'll  spread  it  all  over 
Marcham.  To-morrow  night  you  can  go 
there  and  wait  for  me.  If  you  see  what  I 
saw " 

"Oh,  Ted !"  said  Miss  Ward,  with  a  shiver. 

"Saw?"  said  the  sergeant-major,  starting. 

"Nothing  harmful,"  said  Mr.  Farrer,  calmly. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  very  interesting." 

"What  was?"  demanded  the  sergeant- 
major. 

194 


The  Vigil 

"It  sounds  rather  silly,  as  a  matter  of  fact/' 
said  Mr.  Farrer,  slowly.  "Still,  I  did  see  a 
broken  bough  moving  about  the  garden." 

Mr.  Ward  regarded  him  open-mouthed. 

"Anything  else?"  he  inquired,  in  a  husky 
voice. 

"A  figure  in  white,"  said  Mr.  Farrer,  "with 
long  waving  arms,  hopping  about  like  a  frog. 
I  don't  suppose  you  believe  me,  but  if  you 
come  to-night  perhaps  you'll  see  it  yourself. 
It's  very  interesting." 

"Wer — weren't  you  frightened?"  inquired 
the  staring  Mrs.  Ward. 

Mr.  Farrer  shook  his  head.  "It  would 
take  more  than  that  to  frighten  me,"  he  said, 
simply.  "I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  to 
be  afraid  of  a  poor  thing  like  that.  It  couldn't 
do  me  any  harm." 

"Did  you  see  its  face?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Ward,  nervously. 

Mr.  Farrer  shook  his  head. 

"What  sort  of  a  body  had  it  got?"  said 
her  daughter. 

195 


The  Vigil 

"So  far  as  I  could  see,  very  good,"  said  Mr. 
Fairer.  "Very  good  figure — not  tall,  but  well 
made." 

An  incredible  suspicion  that  had  been 
forming  in  the  sergeant-major's  mind  began 
to  take  shape.  "Did  you  see  anything  else  ?" 
he  asked,  sharply. 

"One  more,"  said  Mr.  Farrer,  regarding 
him  pleasantly.  "One  I  call  the  Running 
Ghost." 

"Run "  began  the  sergeant-major,  and 

stopped  suddenly. 

"It  came  in  at  the  front  gate,"  pursued 
Mr.  Farrer.  "A  tall,  well-knit  figure  of 
martial  bearing — much  about  your  height, 
Mr.  Ward — with  a  beautiful  filmy  white  robe 
down  to  its  knees " 

He  broke  off  in  mild  surprise,  and  stood 
gazing  at  Miss  Ward,  who,  with  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  mouth,  was  rocking  helplessly 
in  her  chair. 

"Knees,"  he  repeated,  quietly.  "It  came 
slowly  down  the  path,  and  half-way  to  the 
196 


The  Vigil 

house  it  stopped,  and  in  a  frightened  sort  of 
voice  called  out  my  name.  I  was  surprised, 
naturally,  but  before  I  could  get  to  it — to 
reassure  it " 

"That'll  do,"  said  the  sergeant-major,  rising 
hastily  and  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full 
height. 

"You  asked  me,"  said  Mr.  Farrer,  in  an 
aggrieved  voice. 

"I  know  I  did,"  said  the  sergeant-major, 
breathing  heaviiy.  "i  know  1  did;  but  if 
I  sit  here  listening  to  any  more  of  your  lies 
I  shall  be  ill.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is 
to  take  that  giggling  girl  out  and  give  her  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.  I  have  done  with  her." 


197 


EASY  MONEY 


Easy  Money 


A  LAD  of  about  twenty  stepped  ashore  from 
•*  •*•  the  schooner  Jane,  and  joining  a  girl, 
who  had  been  avoiding  for  some  ten  minutes 
the  ardent  gaze  of  the  night-watchman,  set 
off  arm-in-arm.  The  watchman  rolled  his 
eyes  and  shook  his  head  slowly. 

Nearly  all  his  money  on  'is  back,  he  said, 
and  what  little  bit  Vs  got  over  he'll  spend 
on  'er.  And  three  months  arter  they're 
married  he'll  wonder  wot  'e  ever  saw  in  her. 
If  a  man  marries  he  wishes  he  'adn't,  and  if 
he  doesn't  marry  he  wishes  he  'ad.  That's 
life. 

Looking  at  them  two  young  fools  reminds 

me  of  a  nevy  of  Sam  Small's;   a  man  I  think 

I've  spoke  to  you  of  afore.     As  a  rule  Sam 

didn't  talk  much  about  'is  relations,  but  there 

20 1 


Easy  Money 

was  a  sister  of  'is  in  the  country  wot  'e  was 
rather  fond  of  because  'e  'adn't  seen  'er  for 
twenty  years.  She  'ad  got  a  boy  wot  'ad  just 
got  a  job  in  London,  and  when  'e  wrote  and 
told  'er  he  was  keeping  company  with  the 
handsomest  and  loveliest  and  best  'arted  gal  in 
the  whole  wide  world,  she  wrote  to  Sam  about 
it  and  asked  'im  to  give  'is  nevy  some  good 
advice. 

Sam  Jad  just  got  back  from  China  and  was 
living  with  Peter  Russet  and  Ginger  Dick 
as  usual,  and  arter  reading  the  letter  about 
seven  times  and  asking  Ginger  how  'e  spelt 
"minx,"  'e  read  the  letter  out  loud  to  them 
and  asked  'em  what  they  thought  about  it. 

Ginger  shook  his  'ead,  and,  arter  thinking 
a  bit,  Peter  shook  his  too. 

"She's  caught  'im  rather  young,"  ses  Ginger. 

"They  get  it  bad  at  that  age  too,"  ses  Peter. 
"When  I  was  twenty,  there  was  a  gal  as  I  was 
fond  of,  and  a  regiment  couldn't  ha'  parted 
us." 

"Wot  did  part  you  then  ?"  ses  Sam. 
202 


Easy  Money 

"Another  gal,"  ses  Peter;  "a  gal  I  took  a 
fancy  to,  that's  wot  did  it.'* 

"I  was  nearly  married  when  I  was  twenty," 
ses  Ginger,  with  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 
"She  was  the  most  beautiful  gal  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life;  she  'ad  one  'undred  pounds  a  year 
of  'er  own  and  she  couldn't  bear  me  out  of 
her  sight.  If  a  thump  acrost  the  chest  would 
do  that  cough  of  yours  any  good,  Sam " 

"Don't  take  no  notice  of  'im,  Ginger,"  ses 
Peter.  "Why  didn't  you  marry  *er?" 

*  'Cos  I  was  afraid  she  might  think  I  was 
arter  'er  money,"  ses  Ginger,  getting  a  little 
bit  closer  to  Sam. 

Peter  'ad  another  turn  then,  and  him  and 
Ginger  kept  on  talking  about  gals  whose  'arts 
they  'ad  broke  till  Sam  didn't  know  what  to 
do  with  'imself. 

"I'll  just  step  round  and  see  my  nevy,  while 
you  and  Peter  are  amusing  each  other,"  he  ses 
at  last.  "I'll  ask  'im  to  come  round  to-morrow 
and  then  you  can  give  'im  good  advice." 

The  nevy  came  round  next  evening.  Bright, 
203 


Easy  Money 

cheerful  young  chap  'e  was,  and  he  agreed  with 
everything  they  said.  When  Peter  said  as  'ow 
all  gals  was  deceivers,  he  said  he'd  known  it 
for  years,  but  they  was  born  that  way  and 
couldn't  'elp  it;  and  when  Ginger  said  that  no 
man  ought  to  marry  afore  he  was  fifty,  he 
corrected  'im  and  made  it  fifty-five. 

"I'm  glad  to  'ear  you  talk  like  that,"  ses 
Ginger. 

"So  am  I,"  ses  Peter. 

"  He's  got  his  'ead  screwed  on  right,"  ses 
Sam,  wot  thought  his  sister  'ad  made  a 
mistake. 

"I'm  surprised  when  I  look  round  at  the 
wimmen  men  'ave  married,"  ses  the  nevy; 
"wot  they  could  'ave  seen  in  them  I  can't 
think.  Me  and  my  young  lady  often  laugh 
about  it." 

"Your  wot?"  ses  Sam,  pretending  to  be 
very  surprised. 

"My  young  lady,"  ses  the  nevy. 

Sam  gives  a  cough.     "I  didn't  know  you'd 
got  a  young  lady,"  he  ses. 
204 


Easy  Money 

"Well,  I  *ave,"  ses  his  nevy,  "and  we're 
going  to  be  married  at  Christmas." 

"But — but  you  ain't  fifty-five,"  ses 
Ginger. 

"I'm  twenty-one,"  ses  the  nevy,  "but  my 
case  is  different.  There  isn't  another  young 
lady  like  mine  in  the  world.  She's  different 
to  all  the  others,  and  it  ain't  likely  I'm  going 
to  let  'er  be  snapped  up  by  somebody 
else.  Fifty-five!  Why,  'ow  I'm  to  wait  till 
Christmas  I  don't  know.  She's  the  prettiest 
and  handsomest  gal  in  the  world;  and  she's 
the  cleverest  one  I  ever  met.  You  ought  to 
hear  'er  laugh.  Like  music  it  is.  You'd 
never  forget  it." 

"Twenty-one  is  young,"  ses  Ginger,  shaking 
his  'ead.  *  'Ave  you  known  'er  long  ?" 

"Three  months,"  ses  the  nevy.  "She  lives 
in  the  same  street  as  I  do.  'Ow  it  is  she  ain't 
been  snapped  up  before,  I  can't  think,  but  she 
told  me  that  she  didn't  care  for  men  tilt  she 


saw  me. 
it 


They  all  say  that,"  ses  Ginger. 
205 


Easy  Money 

"If  I've  'ad  it  said  to  me  once,  I've  'ad  it 
said  twenty  times,"  ses  Peter,  nodding. 

"They  do  it  to  flatter,"  ses  old  Sam,  looking 
as  if  'e  knew  all  about  it.  "You  wait  till  you 
are  my  age,  Joe;  then  you'll  know;  why  I 
should  ha'  been  married  dozens  o'  times  if  I 
'adn't  been  careful." 

"P'r'aps  it  was  a  bit  on  both  sides,"  ses  Joe, 
looking  at  'is  uncle.  "P'r'aps  they  was  careful 
too.  If  you  only  saw  my  young  lady,  you 
wouldn't  talk  like  that.  She's  got  the  truth- 
fullest  eyes  in  the  world.  Large  grey  eyes 
like  a  child's,  leastways  sometimes  they  are 
grey  and  sometimes  they  are  blue.  It  seems 
to  depend  on  the  light  somehow;  I  'ave  seen 
them  when  they  was  a  brown — brownish-gold. 
And  she  smiles  with  'er  eyes." 

"Hasn't  she  got  a  mouth  ?"  ses  Ginger,  wot 
•was  getting  a  bit  tired  of  it. 

"You've  been  crossed  in  love,"  ses  the  nevy, 
staring  at  'im.  "That's  wot's  the  matter  with 
you.  And  looking  at  you,  I  don't  wonder 


at  it." 


206 


Easy  Money 

Ginger  'arf  got  up,  but  Sam  gave  him  a  look 
and  'e  sat  down  agin,  and  then  they  all  sat 
quiet  while  the  nevy  went  on  telling  them 
about  'is  gal. 

"I  should  like  to  see  'er,"  ses  his  uncle  at 
last. 

"Call  round  for  me  at  seven  to-morrow 
night,"  ses  the  young  'un,  "and  I'll  introduce 
you." 

"We  might  look  in  on  our  way,"  ses  Sam, 
arter  Ginger  and  Peter  'ad  both  made  eyes  at 
'im.  "We're  going  out  to  spend  the  evening." 

"The  more  the  merrier,"  ses  his  nevy. 
"Well,  so  long;  I  expect  she's  waiting  for  me." 

He  got  up  and  said  good-bye,  and  arter  he 
'ad  gorn,  Sam  and  the  other  two  shook  their 
'eads  together  and  said  what  a  pity  it  was 
to  be  twenty-one.  Ginger  said  it  made  'im 
sad  to  think  of  it,  and  Peter  said  'ow  any  gal 
could  look  at  a  man  under  thirty,  'e  couldn't 
think. 

They  all  went  round  to  the  nevy's  the  next 
evening.  They  was  a  little  bit  early  owing 
207 


Easy  Money 

to  Ginger's  watch  'aving  been  set  right  by 
guess-work,  and  they  'ad  to  sit  in  a  row  on 
the  nevy's  bed  waiting  while  'e  cleaned  'imself, 
and  changed  his  clothes.  Although  it  was  only 
Wednesday  'e  changed  his  collar,  and  he  was 
so  long  making  up  'is  mind  about  his  necktie 
that  'is  uncle  tried  to  make  it  up  for  him. 
By  the  time  he  'ad  finished  Sam  said  it  made 
'im  think  it  was  Sunday. 

Miss  Gill  was  at  'ome  when  they  got  there, 
and  all  three  of  'em  was  very  much  surprised 
that  such  a  good-looking  gal  should  take  up 
with  Sam's  nevy.  Ginger  nearly  said  so,  but 
Peter  gave  'im  a  dig  in  the  back  just  in  time 
and  'e  called  him  something  under  'is  breath 
instead. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  all  make  an  evening  of 
it  ?"  ses  Ginger,  arter  they  'ad  been  talking  for 
about  ten  minutes,  and  the  nevy  'ad  looked 
at  the  clock  three  or  four  times. 

"Because  two's  company,"  ses  Mrs.  Gill. 
"Why  you  was  young  yourself  once.  Can't 
you  remember  ?" 

208 


"He's  young  now,  mother,"  ses  the  gal, 
giving  Ginger  a  nice  smile. 

"I  tell  you  wot  we  might  do,"  ses  Mrs. 
Gill,  putting  'er  finger  to  her  forehead  and 
considering.  "You  and  Joe  go  out  and  'ave 
your  evening,  and  me  and  these  gentlemen'll 
go  off  together  somewhere.  I  shall  enjoy  an 
outing;  I  ain't  'ad  one  for  a  long  time." 

Ginger  said  it  would  be  very  nice  if  she 
thought  it  wouldn't  make  'er  too  tired,  and 
afore  Sam  or  Peter  could  think  of  anything 
to  say,  she  was  upstairs  putting  'er  bonnet  on. 
They  thought  o'  plenty  to  say  while  they  was 
sitting  alone  with  Ginger  waiting  for  'er. 

"My  idea  was  for  the  gal  and  your  nevy 
to  come  too,"  ses  pore  Ginger.  "Then  I 
thought  we  might  lose  'im  and  I  would  'ave 
a  little  chat  with  the  gal,  and  show  'er  'ow 
foolish  she  was." 

"Well,  you've  done  it  now,"  ses  Sam. 
"Spoilt  our  evening." 

"P'r'aps  good  will  come  out  of  it,"  ses 
Ginger.  "If  the  old  lady  takes  a  fancy  to  us 
209 


Easy  Money 

we  shall  be  able  to  come  agin,  and  then  to 
please  you,  Sam,  I'll  have  a  go  to  cut  your 
nevy  out." 

Sam  stared  at  'im,  and  Peter  stared  too,  and 
then  they  looked  at  each  other  and  began  to 
laugh  till  Ginger  forgot  where  'e  was  and  offered 
to  put  Sam  through  the  winder.  They  was 
still  quarrelling  under  their  breath  and  saying 
wot  they'd  like  to  do  to  each  other  when  Mrs. 
Gill  came  downstairs.  Dressed  up  to  the 
nines  she  was,  and  they  walked  down  the  street 
with  a  feeling  that  everybody  was  looking  at 
'em. 

One  thing  that  'elped  to  spoil  the  evening 
was  that  Mrs.  Gill  wouldn't  go  into  public- 
'ouses,  but  to  make  up  for  it  she  went  into 
sweet-stuff  shops  three  times  and  'ad  ices  while 
they  stood  and  watched  'er  and  wondered  'ow 
she  could  do  it.  And  arter  that  she  stopped 
at  a  place  Poplar  way,  where  there  was  a  few 
swings  and  roundabouts  and  things.  She  was 
as  skittish  as  a  school-gal,  and  arter  taking  pore 
Sam  on  the  roundabout  till  'e  didn't  know 
210 


Easy  Money 

whether  he  was  on  his  'eels  or  his  'ead,  she  got 
'im  into  a  boat-swing  and  swung  'im  till  he 
felt  like  a  boy  on  'is  fust  v'y'ge.  Arter  that 
she  took  'im  to  the  rifle  gallery,  and  afore  he 
had  'ad  three  shots  the  man  took  the  gun 
away  from  'im  and  threatened  to  send  for  the 
police. 

It  was  an  expensive  evening  for  all  of  them, 
but  as  Ginger  said  when  they  got  'ome  they 
'ad  broken  the  ice,  and  he  bet  Peter  Russet  'arf 
a  dollar  that  afore  two  days  'ad  passed  he'd 
take  the  nevy's  gal  for  a  walk.  He  stepped 
round  by  'imself  the  next  arternoon  and  made 
'imself  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Gill,  and  the  day 
arter  they  was  both  so  nice  and  kind  that  'e 
plucked  up  'is  courage  and  offered  to  take  Miss 
Gill  to  the  Zoo. 

She  said  "No"  at  fust,  of  course,  but  arter 
Ginger  'ad  pointed  out  that  Joe  was  at  work 
all  day  and  couldn't  take  'er  'imself,  and  that 
'e  was  Joe's  uncle's  best  pal,  she  began  to 
think  better  of  it. 

"Why  not  ?"  ses  her  mother.  "Joe  wouldn't 
211 


Easy  Money 

mind.  He  wouldn't  be  so  silly  as  to  be  jealous 
o'  Mr.  Ginger  Dick." 

"Of  course  not,"  ses  the  gal.  "There's 
nothing  to  be  jealous  of." 

She  let  'er  mother  "and  Ginger  persuade  'er 
arter  a  time,  and  then  she  went  upstairs  to 
clean  herself,  and  put  on  a  little  silver  brooch 
that  Ginger  said  he  'ad  picked  up  coming  along. 

She  took  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to 
get  ready,  but  when  she  came  down,  Ginger 
felt  that  it  was  quite  worth  it.  He  couldn't 
take  'is  eyes  off  'er,  as  the  saying  goes,  and  'e 
sat  by  'er  side  on  the  top  of  the  omnibus  like 
a  man  in  a  dream. 

"This  is  better  than  being  at  sea,"  he  ses 
at  last. 

"Don't  you  like  the  sea  ?"  ses  the  gal.  "I 
should  like  to  go  to  sea  myself." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  the  sea  if  you  was  there," 
ses  Ginger. 

Miss  Gill  turned  her  'ead  away.  "You 
mustn't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  she  ses  in  a  soft 
voice.  "Still " 

212 


Easy  Money 

"Still  wot?"  ses  Ginger,  arter  waiting  a 
long  time. 

"I  mean,  if  I  did  go  to  sea>  it  would  be  nice 
to  have  a  friend  on  board,"  she  ses.  "I  suppose 
you  ain't  afraid  of  storms,  are  you?" 

"I  like  'em,"  ses  Ginger. 

"You  look  as  if  you  would,"  ses  the  gal, 
giving  'im  a  little  look  under  'er  eyelashes.  "It 
must  be  nice  to  be  a  man  and  be  brave.  I  wish 
I  was  a  man." 

"I  don't,"  ses  Ginger. 

"Why  not?"  ses  the  gal,  turning  her  'ead 
away  agin. 

Ginger  didn't  answer,  he  gave  'er  elbow  a 
little  squeeze  instead.  She  took  it  away  at 
once,  and  Ginger  was  just  wishing  he  'adn't 
been  so  foolish,  when  it  came  back  agin,  and 
they  sat  for  a  long  time  without  speaking  a 
word. 

"The  sea  is  all  right  for  some  things," 
ses  Ginger  at  last,  "but  suppose  a  man 
married !" 

The  gal  shook  her  'ead.  "It  would  be 
213 


Easy  Money 

hard  on  'is  wife,"  she  ses,  with  another  little 
look  at  'im,  "but — but " 

Ginger  pinched  'er  elbow  agin. 

"But  p'r'aps  he  could  get  a  job  ashore," 
she  ses,  "and  then  he  could  take  his  wife  out 
for  a  bus-ride  every  day." 

They  'ad  to  change  buses  arter  a  time,  and 
they  got  on  a  wrong  bus  and  went  miles  out  o* 
their  way,  but  neither  of  'em  seemed  to  mind. 
Ginger  said  he  was  thinking  of  something  else, 
and  the  gal  said  she  was  too.  They  got  to  the 
Zoological  Gardens  at  last,  and  Ginger  said  he 
'ad  never  enjoyed  himself  so  much.  When  the 
lions  roared  she  squeezed  his  arm,  and  when 
they  'ad  an  elephant  ride  she  was  holding  on 
to  'im  with  both  'ands. 

"I  am  enjoying  myself,"  she  ses,  as  Ginger 
'elped  her  down  and  said  "whoa"  to  the 
elephant.  "I  know  it's  wicked,  but  I  can't 
'elp  it,  and  wot's  more,  I'm  afraid  I  don't 
want  to  'elp  it." 

She  let  Ginger  take  'er  arm  when  she  nearly 
tripped  up  over  a  peppermint  ball  some  kid 
214 


Easy  Money 

'ad  dropped;  and,  arter  a  little  persuasion,  she 
'ad  a  bottle  of  lemonade  and  six  bath-buns  at 
a  refreshment  stall  for  dinner. 

She  was  as  nice  as  she  could  be  to  him, 
but  by  the  time  they  started  for  'ome,  she  'ad 
turned  so  quiet  that  Ginger  began  to  think  'e 
must  'ave  offended  'er  in  some  way. 

"Are  you  tired  ?"  he  ses. 

"No,"  ses  the  gal,  shaking  her  'ead,  "I've 
enjoyed  myself  very  much." 

"I  thought  you  seemed  a  bit  tired,"  ses 
Ginger,  arter  waiting  a  long  time. 

"I'm  not  tired,"  ses  the  gal,  giving  'im  a 
sad  sort  o'  little  smile,  "but  I'm  a  little  bit 
worried,  that's  all." 

"Worried?"  ses  Ginger,  very  tender. 
"Wot's  worrying  you?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,"  ses  Miss  Gill.  "It 
doesn't  matter;  I'll  try  and  cheer  up.  Wot  a 
lovely  day  it  is,  isn't  it  ?  I  shall  remember  it 
all  my  life." 

"Wot  is  it  worrying  you  ?"  ses  Ginger,  in  a 
determined  voice.  "Can't  you  tell  me?" 

215 


Easy  Money 

"No,"  ses  the  gal,  shaking  her  'ead,  "I 
can't  tell  you  because  you  might  want  to  'elp 
me,  and  I  couldn't  allow  that." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  'elp  you?"  ses  Ginger. 
"It's  wot  we  was  put  'ere  for:  to  'elp  one 
another." 

"I  couldn't  tell  you,"  ses  the  gal,  just 
dabbing  at  'er  eyes  with  a  lacepocket-'ankercher 
about  one  and  a  'arf  times  the  size  of  'er  nose. 

"Not  if  I  ask  you  to  ?"  ses  Ginger. 

Miss  Gill  shook  'er  'ead,  and  then  she  tried 
her  'ardest  to  turn  the  conversation.  She  talked 
about  the  weather,  and  the  monkey-'ouse,  and 
a  gal  in  'er  street  whose  'air  changed  from  red 
to  black  in  a  single  night;  but  it  was  all  no 
good,  Ginger  wouldn't  be  put  off,  and  at  last 
she  ses 

"Well,"  she  ses,  "if  you  must  know,  I'm  in 
a  difficulty;  I  'ave  got  to  get  three  pounds, 
and  where  to  get  it  I  don't  know  any  more 
than  the  man  in  the  moon.  Now  let's  talk 
about  something  else." 

"Do  you  owe  it  ?"  ses  Ginger. 
216 


Easy  Money 

"I  can't  tell  you  any  more,"  ses  Miss  Gill, 
"and  I  wouldn't  'ave  told  you  that  only  you 
asked  me,  and  somehow  I  feel  as  though  I  'ave 
to  tell  you  things,  when  you  want  me  to." 

"Three  pounds  ain't  much,"  ses  pore  Ginger, 
wot  'ad  just  been  paid  off  arter  a  long  v'y'ge. 
"I  can  let  you  'ave  it  and  welcome." 

Miss  Gill  started  away  from  'im  as  though 
she  'ad  been  stung,  and  it  took  'im  all  his  time 
to  talk  'er  round  agin.  When  he  'ad  she 
begged  'is  pardon  and  said  he  was  the  most 
generous  man  she  'ad  ever  met,  but  it  couldn't 
be. 

"I  don't  know  when  I  could  pay  it  back," 
she  ses,  "but  I  thank  you  all  the  same  for 
offering  it." 

"Pay  it  back  when  you  like,"  ses  Ginger, 
"and  if  you  never  pay  it  back,  it  don't  matter." 

He  offered  'er  the  money  four  or  five  times, 
but  she  wouldn't  take  it,  but  at  last  just  as 
they  got  near  her  'ouse  he  forced  it  in  her  'and, 
and  put  his  own  'ands  in  his  pockets  when  she 
tried  to  make  'im  take  it  back. 
217 


Easy  Money 

"You  are  good  to  me,"  she  ses  arter  they 
'ad  gone  inside  and  'er  mother  'ad  gone 
upstairs  arter  giving  Ginger  a  bottle  o'  beer 
to  amuse  'imself  with;  "I  shall  never  forget 
you.  Never.*' 

"I  'ope  not,"  ses  Ginger,  starting.  "Are 
you  coming  out  agin  to-morrow  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't,"  ses  Miss  Gill,  shaking 
her  'ead  and  looking  sorrowful. 

"Not  with  me?"  ses  Ginger,  sitting  down 
beside  her  on  the  sofa  and  putting  'is  arm  so 
that  she  could  lean  against  it  if  she  wanted  to. 

"I  don't  think  I  can,"  ses  the  gal,  leaning 
back  very  gentle. 

"Think  agin,"  ses  Ginger,  squeezing  'er 
waist  a  little. 

Miss  Gill  shook  her  'ead,  and  then  turned 
and  looked  at  'im.  Her  face  was  so  close  to 
his,  that,  thinking  that  she  'ad  put  it  there 
a-purpose,  he  kissed  it,  and  the  next  moment  'e 
got  a  clout  that  made  his  'ead  ring. 

"  'Ow  dare  you !"  she  ses,  jumping  up  with 

a  scream.  "'Ow  dare  you!  'Ow  dare " 

218 


Easy  Money 

"Wot's  the  matter  ?"  ses  her  mother,  coming 
downstairs  like  a  runaway  barrel  of  treacle. 

"He — he's  insulted  me,"  ses  Miss  Gill, 
taking  out  her  little  'ankercher  and  sobbing. 
"He— k— kissed  me!" 

"WoT!"  ses  Mrs.  Gill.  "Well,  I'd  never 
'ave  believed  it !  Never !  Why  'e  ought  to 
be  taken  up.  Wot  d'ye  mean  by  it?"  she 
ses,  turning  on  pore  Ginger. 

Ginger  tried  to  explain,  but  it  was  all  no 
good,  and  two  minutes  arterwards  'e  was 
walking  back  to  'is  lodgings  like  a  dog  with 
its  tail  between  its  legs.  His  'ead  was  going 
round  and  round  with  astonishment,  and  'e 
was  in  such  a  temper  that  'e  barged  into  a 
man  twice  as  big  as  himself  and  then  offered 
to  knock  his  'ead  off  when  'e  objected.  And 
when  Sam  and  Peter  asked  him  'ow  he  'ad  got 
on,  he  was  in  such  a  state  of  mind  it  was  all 
'e  could  do  to  answer  'em. 

"And  I'll  trouble  you  for  my  'arf  dollar, 
Peter,"  he  ses;    "I've  been  out  with  'er  all 
day,  and  I've  won  my  bet." 
219 


Easy  Money 

Peter  paid  it  over  like  a  lamb,  and  then  'e 
sat  thinking  'ard  for  a  bit. 

"Are  you  going  out  with  'er  agin  to-morrow, 
Ginger  ?"  he  ses,  arter  a  time. 

"I  don't  know,"  ses  Ginger,  careless-like, 
"I  ain't  made  up  my  mind  yet." 

Peter  looked  at  'im  and  then  'e  looked  at 
Sam  and  winked.  "Let  me  'ave  a  try,"  he 
ses;  "I'll  bet  you  another  'arf  dollar  that  I 
take  'er  out.  P'r'aps  I  shall  come  'ome  in  a 
better  temper  than  wot  you  'ave." 

Old  Sam  said  it  wasn't  right  to  play  with  a 
gal's  'art  in  that  way,  but  arter  a  lot  o'  talking 
and  telling  Sam  to  shut  up,  Ginger  took  the 
bet.  He  was  quite  certain  in  his  own  mind 
that  Miss  Gill  would  slam  the  door  in  Peter's 
face,  and  arter  he  'ad  started  off  next  morning, 
Ginger  and  Sam  waited  in  to  'ave  the  pleasure 
of  laughing  in  'is  face. 

They  got  tired  of  waiting  at  last,  and  went 

out    to    enjoy    themselves,    and    breathe    the 

fresh  air  in  a  pub  down  Poplar  way.     They 

got  back  at  seven  o'clock,  and  ten  minutes 

220 


Easy  Money 

afterwards  Peter  came  in  and  sat  down  on 
his  bed  and  began  to  smoke  without  a  word. 

"Had  a  good  time?"  ses  Ginger. 

"Rippin',"  ses  Peter,  holding  'is  pipe  tight 
between  'is  teeth.  "You  owe  me  'arf  a  dollar, 
Ginger." 

"Where'd  you  go?"  ses  Ginger,  passing  it 
over. 

"Crystal  Pallis,"  ses  Peter. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  'er  out  to-morrow  ?" 
ses  Sam. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  ses  Peter,  taking  'is  pipe 
out  of  'is  mouth  and  yawning.  "She's  rather 
too  young  for  me;  I  like  talking  to  gals  wot's  a 
bit  older.  I  won't  stand  in  Ginger's  way." 

"I  found  'er  a  bit  young  too,"  ses  Ginger. 
"P'r'aps  we'd  better  let  Sam's  nevy  'ave  'er. 
Arter  all  it's  a  bit  rough  on  'im  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it." 

"You're  quite  right,"  ses  Peter,  jumping 
up.  "It's  Sam's  business,  and  why  we  should 
go  out  of  our  way  and  inconvenience  ourselves 
to  do  'im  a  good  turn,  I  don't  know." 

221 


Easy  Money 

"It's  Sam  all  over,"  ses  Ginger;  "he's  always 
been  like  that,  and  the  more  you  try  to  oblige 
'im,  the  more  you  may." 

They  went  on  abusing  Sam  till  he  got  sick 
and  tired  of  it,  and  arter  telling  'em  wot  he 
thought  of  'em  he  slammed  the  door  and  went 
out  and  spent  the  evening  by  'imself.  He 
would  'ardly  speak  to  them  next  day,  but  arter 
tea  he  brightened  up  a  bit  and  they  went  off 
together  as  if  nothing  'ad  happened,  and  the 
fust  thing  they  saw  as  they  turned  out  of  their 
street  was  Sam's  nevy  coming  along  smiling 
till  it  made  their  faces  ache  to  look  at  him. 

"I  was  just  coming  to  see  you,"  he  ses. 

"We're  just  off — on  business,"  ses  Ginger. 

"I  wasn't  going  to  stop,"  ses  the  nevy; 
"my  young  lady  just  told  me  to  step  along 
and  show  uncle  wot  she  has  bought  me.  A 
silver  watch  and  chain  and  a  gold  ring.  Look 
at  it!" 

He  held  his  'and  under  Ginger's  nose,  and 
Ginger  stood  there  looking  at  it  and  opening 
and  shutting  'is  mouth  like  a  dying  fish.  Then 

222 


Easy  Money 

he  took  Peter  by  the  arm  and  led  'im  away  while 
the  nevy  was  opening  'is  new  watch  and  show- 
ing Sam  the  works. 

"'Ow  much  did  she  get  out  of  you,  Peter?" 
ses  Ginger,  looking  at  'im  very  hard.  "I 
don't  want  any  lies." 

"Three  quid,"  ses  Peter,  staring  at  'im. 

"Same  'ere,"  ses  Ginger,  grinding  his  teeth. 
"Did  she  give  you  a  smack  on  the  side  of  your 
face?" 

"Wot — are — you — talking  about,  Ginger?" 
ses  Peter. 

"Did  she  smack  your  face  too?"  ses  Ginger. 

"Yes,"  ses  Peter. 


223 


HIS  OTHER  SELF 


His  Other  Self 

"HpHEY'RE  as  like  as  two  peas,  him  and  'is 
A  brother,"  said  the  night-watchman, 
gazing  blandly  at  the  indignant  face  of  the 
lighterman  on  the  barge  below;  "and  the 
on'y  way  I  know  this  one  is  Sam  is  because 
Bill  don't  use  bad  langwidge.  Twins  they  are, 
but  the  likeness  is  only  outside;  Bill's  'art  is 
as  white  as  snow." 

He  cut  off  a  plug  of  tobacco,  and,  placing 
it  in  his  cheek,  waited  expectantly. 

"White  as  snow,"  he  repeated. 

"That's  me,"  said  the  lighterman,  as  he 
pushed  his  unwieldy  craft  from  the  jetty. 
"I'll  tell  Sam  your  opinion  of  'im.  So 
long." 

The  watchman  went  a  shade  redder  than 
usual.  That's  twins  all  over,  he  said,  sourly, 
227 


His  Other  Self 

always  deceiving  people.  It's  Bill  arter  all, 
and,  instead  of  hurting  'is  feelings,  I've  just 
been  flattering  of  'im  up. 

It  ain't  the  fust  time  I've  'ad  trouble  over 
a  likeness.  I've  been  a  twin  myself  in  a 
manner  o'  speaking.  It  didn't  last  long,  but 
it  lasted  long  enough  for  me  to  always  be  sorry 
for  twins,  and  to  make  a  lot  of  allowance 
for  them.  It  must  be  very  *ard  to  have 
another  man  going  about  with  your  face  on 
'is  shoulders,  and  getting  it  into  trouble. 

It  was  a  year  or  two  ago  now.  I  was 
sitting  one  evening  at  the  gate,  smoking  a 
pipe  and  looking  at  a  newspaper  I  'ad  found 
in  the  office,  when  I  see  a  gentleman  coming 
along  from  the  swing-bridge.  Well-dressed, 
clean-shaved  chap  'e  was,  smoking  a  cigarette. 
He  was  walking  slow  and  looking  about  'Jm 
casual-like,  until  his  eyes  fell  on  me,  when  he 
gave  a  perfect  jump  of  surprise,  and,  arter 
looking  at  me  very  'ard,  walked  on  a  little 
way  and  then  turned  back.  He  did  it  twice, 
and  I  was  just  going  to  say  something  to  'im, 
228 


His  Other  Self 

something  that  I  'ad  been  getting  ready  fof 
'im,  when  he  spoke  to  me. 

"Good  evening,"  he  ses. 

"Good  evening,"  I  ses,  folding  the  paper 
over  and  looking  at  'im  rather  severe. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  staring,"  he  ses, 
very  perlite;  "but  I've  never  seen  such  a 
face  and  rigger  as  yours  in  all  my  life — never." 

"Ah,  you  ought  to  ha'  seen  me  a  few  years 
ago,"  I  ses.  "I'm  like  everybody  else — I'm 
getting  on." 

"Rubbish!"  he  ses.  "You  couldn't  be 
better  if  you  tried.  It's  marvellous !  Won- 
derful !  It's  the  very  thing  I've  been  looking 
for.  Why,  if  you'd  been  made  to  order  you 
couldn't  ha*  been  better." 

I  thought  at  fust  he  was  by  way  of  trying 
to  get  a  drink  out  o'  me — I've  been  played 
that  game  afore — but  instead  o'  that  he  asked 
me  whether  I'd  do  'im  the  pleasure  of  'aving 
one  with  'im. 

We  went  over  to  the  Albion,  and  I  believe 
I  could  have  'ad  it  in  a  pail  if  I'd  on'y  liked 
229 


His  Other  Self 

to  say  the  word.  And  all  the  time  I  was 
drinking  he  was  looking  me  up  and  down,  till  I 
didn't  know  where  to  look,  as  the  saying  is. 

"I  came  down  'ere  to  look  for  somebody 
like  you,"  he  ses,  "but  I  never  dreamt  I 
should  have  such  luck  as  this.  I'm  an  actor, 
and  I've  got  to  play  the  part  of  a  sailor,  and 
I've  been  worried  some  time  'ow  to  make  up 
for  the  part.  D'ye  understand?" 

"No,"  I  ses,  looking  at  'im. 

"I  want  to  look  the  real  thing,"  he  ses, 
speaking  low  so  the  landlord  shouldn't  hear. 
"I  want  to  make  myself  the  living  image  of 
you.  If  that  don't  fetch  'em  I'll  give  up  the 
stage  and  grow  cabbages." 

"Make  yourself  like  me?"  I  ses.  "Why, 
you're  no  more  like  me  than  I'm  like  a  sea-sick 
monkey." 

"Not  so  much,"  he  ses.  "That's  where 
the  art  comes  in." 

He  stood  me  another  drink,  and  then, 
taking  my  arm  in  a  cuddling  sort  o'  way, 
and  calling  me  "Dear  boy,"  'e  led  me  back  to 
230 


His  Other  Self 

the  wharf  and  explained.  He  said  'e  would 
come  round  next  evening  with  wot  'e  called 
his  make-up  box,  and  paint  'is  face  and  make 
'imself  up  till  people  wouldn't  know  one  from 
the  other. 

"And  wot  about  your  figger?"  I  ses, 
looking  at  'im. 

"A  cushion,"  he  ses,  winking,  "or  maybe 
a  couple.  And  what  about  clothes  ?  You'll 
'ave  to  sell  me  those  you've  got  on.  Hat  and 
all.  And  boots." 

I  put  a  price  on  'em  that  I  thought  would 
'ave  finished  'im  then  and  there,  but  it  didn't. 
And  at  last,  arter  paying  me  so  many  more 
compliments  that  they  began  to  get  into  my 
'ead,  he  fixed  up  a  meeting  for  the  next  night 
and  went  off. 

"And  mind,"  he  ses,  coming  back,  "not 
a  word  to  a  living  soul !" 

He  went  off  agin,  and,  arter  going  to  the 

Bull's  Head  and  'aving  a  pint  to  clear  my 

'ead,  I  went  and  sat  down  in  the  office  and 

thought  it  over.     It  seemed  all  right  to  me 

231 


His  Other  Self 

as  far  as  I  could  see;  but  p'r'aps  the  pint 
didn't  clear  my  'ead  enough — p'r'aps  I  ought 
to  'ave  'ad  two  pints. 

I  lay  awake  best  part  of  next  day  thinking 
it  over,  and  when  I  got  up  I  'ad  made  up  my 
mind.  I  put  my  clothes  in  a  sack,  and  then  I 
put  on  some  others  as  much  like  'em  as  possible, 
on'y  p'r'aps  a  bit  older,  in  case  the  missis 
should  get  asking  questions;  and  then  I  sat 
wondering  'ow  to  get  out  with  the  sack  without 
*er  noticing  it.  She's  got  a  very  inquiring 
mind,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  her  any  lies 
about  it.  Besides  which  I  couldn't  think  of 
one. 

I  got  out  at  last  by  playing  a  game  on 
her.  I  pertended  to  drop  'arf  a  dollar  in  the 
washus,  and  while  she  was  busy  on  'er  hands 
and  knees  I  went  off  as  comfortable  as  you 
please. 

I  got  into  the  office  with  it  all  right,  and, 
just  as  it  was  getting  dark,  a  cab  drove  up 
to  the  wharf  and  the  actor-chap  jumped  out 
with  a  big  leather  bag.  I  took  'im  into  the 


His  Other  Self 

private  office,  and  'e  was  so  ready  with  'is 
money  for  the  clothes  that  I  offered  to  throw 
the  sack  in. 

He  changed  into  my  clothes  fust  of  all, 
and  then,  asking  me  to  sit  down  in  front  of 
*im,  he  took  a  looking-glass  and  a  box  out  of 
'is  bag  and  began  to  alter  'is  face.  Wot 
with  sticks  of  coloured  paint,  and  false  eye- 
brows, and  a  beard  stuck  on  with  gum  and 
trimmed  with  a  pair  o'  scissors,  it  was  more 
like  a  conjuring  trick  than  anything  else. 
Then  'e  took  a  wig  out  of  'is  bag  and  pressed 
it  on  his  'ead,  put  on  the  cap,  put  some  black 
stuff  on  'is  teeth,  and  there  he  was.  We 
both  looked  into  the  glass  together  while  'e 
gave  the  finishing  touches,  and  then  he  clapped 
me  on  the  back  and  said  I  was  the  handsomest 
sailorman  in  England. 

"I  shall  have  to  make  up  a  bit  'eavier 
when  I'm  behind  the  floats,"  he  ses;  "but 
this  is  enough  for  'ere.  Wot  do  you  think 
of  the  imitation  of  pour  voice  ?  I  think  I've 
got  it  exact." 

233 


His  Other  Self 

"If  you  ask  me,"  I  ses,  "it  sounds  like  a 
poll-parrot  with  a  cold  in  the  'ead." 

"And  now  for  your  walk,"  he  ses,  looking 
as  pleased  as  if  I'd  said  something  else.  "  Come 
to  the  door  and  see  me  go  up  the  wharf." 

I  didn't  like  to  hurt  'is  feelings,  but  I 
thought  I  should  ha'  bust.  He  walked  up 
that  wharf  like  a  dancing-bear  in  a  pair  of 
trousers  too  tight  for  it,  but  'e  was  so  pleased 
with  'imself  that  I  didn't  like  to  tell  'im  so. 
He  went  up  and  down  two  or  three  times, 
and  I  never  saw  anything  so  ridikerlous  in  my 
life. 

"That's  all  very  well  for  us,"  he  ses;  "but 
wot  about  other  people  ?  That's  wot  I  want 
to  know.  I'll  go  and  'ave  a  drink,  and  see 
whether  anybody  spots  me." 

Afore  I  could  stop  'im  he  started  off  to  the 
Bull's  Head  and  went  in,  while  I  stood  out- 
side and  watched  'im. 

"  'Arf  a  pint  o'  four  ale,"  he  ses,  smacking 
down  a  penny. 

I  see  the  landlord  draw  the  beer  and  give 

234 


His  Other  Self 

it  to  'im,  but  'e  didn't  seem  to  take  no  notice 
of  'im.  Then,  just  to  open  'is  eyes  a  bit,  I 
walked  in  and  put  down  a  penny  and  asked 
for  a  'arf-pint. 

The  landlord  was  just  wiping  down  the 
counter  at  the  time,  and  when  I  gave  my 
order  he  looked  up  and  stood  staring  at  me 
with  the  wet  cloth  'eld  up  in  the  air.  He 
didn't  say  a  word — not  a  single  word.  He 
stood  there  for  a  moment  smiling  at  us  foolish- 
like,  and  then  'e  let  go  o'  the  beer-injin,  wot 
*e  was  'olding  in  'is  left  hand,  and  sat  down 
heavy  on  the  bar  floor.  We  both  put  our 
'eads  over  the  counter  to  see  wot  had  'appened 
to  'im,  and  'e  started  making  the  most  'orrible 
noise  I  'ave  ever  heard  in  my  life.  I  wonder 
it  didn't  bring  the  fire-injins.  The  actor- 
chap  bolted  out  as  if  he'd  been  shot,  and  I 
was  just  thinking  of  follering  'im  when  the 
landlord's  wife  and  'is  two  daughters  came 
rushing  out  and  asking  me  wot  I  'ad  done  to 
him. 

"There — there — was  two  of  'im!"  ses  the 
235 


His  Other  Self 

landlord,  trembling  and  holding  on  to  'is 
wife's  arm,  as  they  helped  'im  up  and  got  'im 
in  the  chair.  "Two  of  'im  !" 

"Two  of  wot  ?"  ses  his  wife. 

"Two — two  watchmen,"  ses  the  landlord; 
"both  exac'ly  alike  and  both  asking  for  'arf 
a  pint  o'  four  ale." 

"Yes,  yes,"  ses  'is  wife. 

"You  come  and  lay  down,  pa,"  ses  the  gals. 

"I  tell  you  there  was,"  ses  the  landlord, 
getting  'is  colour  back,  with  temper. 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know  all  about  it,"  ses  'is  wife. 
"You  come  inside  for  a  bit;  and,  Gertie,  you 
bring  your  father  in  a  soda — a  large  soda." 

They  got  'im  in  arter  a  lot  o*  trouble;  but 
three  times  'e  came  back  as  far  as  the  door, 
'olding  on  to  them,  and  taking  a  little  peep 
at  me.  The  last  time  he  shook  his  'ead  at  me, 
and  said  if  I  did  it  agin  I  could  go  and  get  my 
'arf-pints  somewhere  else. 

I  finished  the  beer  wot  the  actor  'ad  left, 
and.  arter  telling  the  landlord  I  'oped  his 
eyesight  'ud  be  better  in  the  morning,  I  went 
236 


His  Other  Self 

outside,  and  arter  a  careful  look  round  walked 
back  to  the  wharf. 

I  pushed  the  wicket  open  a  little  way  and 
peeped  in.  The  actor  was  standing  just  by 
the  fust  crane  talking  to  two  of  the  hands  off 
of  the  Saltram.  He'd  got  'is  back  to  the 
light,  but  'ow  it  was  they  didn't  twig  his  voice 
I  can't  think. 

They  was  so  busy  talking  that  I  crept  along 
by  the  side  of  the  wall  and  got  to  the  office 
without  their  seeing  me.  I  went  into  the 
private  office  and  turned  out  the  gas  there, 
and  sat  down  to  wait  for  'im.  Then  I  'eard 
a  noise  outside  that  took  me  to  the  door  agin 
and  kept  me  there,  'olding  on  to  the  door-post 
and  gasping  for  my  breath.  The  cook  of  the 
Saltram  was  sitting  on  a  paraffin-cask  playing 
the  mouth-orgin,  and  the  actor,  with  'is  arms 
folded  across  his  stummick,  was  dancing  a 
horn-pipe  as  if  he'd  gorn  mad. 

I  never  saw  anything  so  ridikerlous  in  my 
life,  and  when  I  recollected  that  they  thought 
it  was  ~mey  I  thought  I  should  ha'  dropped. 
237 


His  Other  Self 

A  night-watchman  can't  be  too  careful,  and 
I  knew  that  it  'ud  be  all  over  Wapping  next 
morning  that  I  'ad  been  dancing  to  a  tuppenny- 
ha'penny  mouth-orgin  played  by  a  ship's  cook. 
A  man  that  does  'is  dooty  always  has  a  lot  of 
people  ready  to  believe  the  worst  of  'im. 

I  went  back  into  the  dark  office  and  waited, 
and  by  and  by  I  'card  them  coming  along 
to  the  gate  and  patting  'im  on  the  back  and 
saying  he  ought  to  be  in  a  pantermime  instead 
o*  wasting  'is  time  night-watching.  He  left 
'em  at  the  gate,  and  then  'e  came  into  the 
office  smiling  as  if  he'd  done  something  clever. 

"Wot  d'ye  think  of  me  for  a  understudy  ?" 
he  ses,  laughing.  "They  all  thought  it  was 
you.  There  wasn't  one  of  'em  'ad  the  slightest 
suspicion — not  on«." 

"And  wot  about  my  character?"  I  ses, 
folding  my  arms  acrost  my  chest  and  looking 
at  him. 

"Character?"  he  ses,  staring.  "Why, 
there's  no  'ajrm  in  dancing;  it's  a  innercent 
enjoyment." 

238 


His  Other  Self 

"It  ain't  one  o'  my  innercent  enjoyments," 
I  ses,  "and  I  don't  want  to  get  the  credit  of 
it.  If  they  hadn't  been  sitting  in  a  pub  all 
the  evening  they'd  'ave  spotted  you  at  once." 

"Oh!"  he  ses,  very  huffy.     "How?" 

"Your  voice,"  I  ses.  "You  try  and  mimic 
a  poll-parrot,  and  think  it's  like  me.  And, 
for  another  thing,  you  walk  about  as  though 
you're  stuffed  with  sawdust." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  ses;  "the  voice 
and  the  walk  are  exact.  Exact." 

"Wot?"  I  ses,  looking  'im  up  and  down, 
"You  stand  there  and  'ave  the  impudence  to 
tell  me  that  my  voice  is  like  that  ?" 

"I  do,"  he  ses. 

"Then  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  I  ses.  "I 
thought  you'd  got  more  sense." 

He  stood  looking  at  me  and  gnawing  'is 
finger,  and  by  and  by  he  ses,  "Are  you 
married  ?"  he  ses. 

"I  am,"  I  ses,  very  short. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?"  he  ses. 

I  told  'im. 

239 


His  Other  Self 

"Very  good,"  he  ses;  "p'r'aps  I'll  be  able 
to  convince  you  arter  all.  By  the  way,  wot 
do  you  call  your  wife  ?  Missis  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  ses,  staring  at  him.  "But  wot's 
it  got  to  do  with  you  ?" 

"Nothing,"  he  ses.  "Nothing.  Only  I'm 
going  to  try  the  poll-parrot  voice  and  the 
sawdust  walk  on  her,  that's  all.  If  I  can 
deceive  'er  that'll  settle  it." 

"Deceive  her?"  I  ses.  "Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  let  you  go  round  to  my  'ouse  and  get 
me  into  trouble  with  the  missis  like  that  ? 
Why,  you  must  be  crazy;  that  dancing  must 
'ave  got  into  your  'ead." 

"Where's  the  'arm  ?"  he  ses,  very  sulky. 

"'Arm?"  I  ses.  "I  won't  'ave  it,  that's 
all;  and  if  you  knew  my  missis  you'd  know 
without  any  telling." 

"I'll  bet  you  a  pound  to  a  sixpence  she 
wouldn't  know  me,"  he  ses,  very  earnest. 

"She  won't  'ave  the  chance,"  I  ses,  "so 
that's  all  about  it.'* 

He  stood  there  argufying  for  about  ten 
240 


His  Other  Self 

minutes;  but  I  was  as  firm  as  a  rock.  I 
wouldn't  move  an  inch,  and  at  last,  arter  we 
was  both  on  the  point  of  losing  our  tempers, 
he  picked  up  his  bag  and  said  as  'ow  he  must 
be  getting  off  'ome. 

"But  ain't  you  going  to  take  those  things 
off  fust?"  I  ses. 

"No,"  he  ses,  smiling.  "I'll  wait  till  I 
get  'ome.  Ta-ta." 

He  put  'is  bag  on  'is  shoulder  and  walked 
to  the  gate,  with  me  follering  of  'im. 

"I  expect  I  shall  see  a  cab  soon,"  he  ses. 
"Good-bye." 

"Wot  are  you  laughing  at?"  I  ses. 

"On'y  thoughts,"  he  ses. 

"  'Ave  you  got  far  to  go  ?"  I  ses. 

"No;  just  about  the  same  distance  as 
you  'ave,"  he  ses,  and  he  went  off  spluttering 
like  a  soda-water  bottle. 

I  took  the  broom  and  'ad  a  good  sweep-up 

arter  he  'ad  gorn,  and  I  was  just  in  the  middle 

of  it  when  the  cook  and  the  other  two  chaps 

from  the  Saltram  came  back,  with  three  other 

241 


His  Other  Self 

sailormen  and  a  brewer's  drayman  they  'ad 
brought  to  see  me  DANCE  ! 

"Same  as  you  did  a  little  while  ago,  Bill," 
ses  the  cook,  taking  out  'is  beastly  mouth- 
orgin  and  wiping  it  on  'is  sleeve.  "Wot 
toon  would  you  like  ? " 

I  couldn't  get  away  from  'em,  and  when  I 
told  them  I  'ad  never  danced  in  my  life  the 
cook  asked  me  where  I  expected  to  go  to.  He 
told  the  drayman  that  I'd  been  dancing  like 
a  fairy  in  sea-boots,  and  they  all  got  in  front 
of  me  and  wouldn't  let  me  pass.  I  lost  my 
temper  at  last,  and,  arter  they  'ad  taken  the 
broom  away  from  me  and  the  drayman  and 
one  o'  the  sailormen  'ad  said  wot  they'd  do 
to  me  if  I  was  on'y  fifty  years  younger,  they 
sheered  off. 

I  locked  the  gate  arter  'em  and  went  back 
to  the  office,  and  I  'adn't  been  there  above 
'arf  an  hour  when  somebody  started  ringing 
the  gate-bell  as  if  they  was  mad.  I  thought 
it  was  the  cook's  lot  come  back  at  fust,  so  I 
opened  the  wicket  just  a  trifle  and  peeped 
242 


His  Other  Self 

out.  There  was  a  'ansom-cab  standing  out- 
side, and  I  'ad  hardly  got  my  nose  to  the 
crack  when  the  actor-chap,  still  in  my  clothes, 
pushed  the  door  open  and  nipped  in. 

"You've  lost,"  he  ses,  pushing  the  door  to 
and  smiling  all  over.  "Where's  your  six- 
pence ?" 

"Lost?"  I  ses,  hardly  able  to  speak.  "D'ye 
mean  to  tell  me  you've  been  to  my  wife  arter 
all — arter  all  I  said  to  you  ? " 

"I  do,"  he  ses,  nodding,  and  smiling  agin. 
"They  were  both  deceived  as  easy  as  easy." 

"Both?"  I  ses,  staring  at  'im.  "Both 
wot  ?  'Ow  many  wives  d'ye  think  I've  got  ? 
Wot  d'ye  mean  by  it  ? " 

"Arter  I  left  you,"  he  ses,  giving  me  a 
little  poke  in  the  ribs,  "I  picked  up  a  cab  and, 
fust  leaving  my  bag  at  Aldgate,  I  drove  on 
to  your  'ouse  and  knocked  at  the  door.  I 
knocked  twice,  and  then  an  angry-looking 
woman  opened  it  and  asked  me  wot  I 
wanted. 

"  'It's  all  right,  missis,'  I  ses.  Tve  got 
243 


His  Other  Self 

'arf  an  hour  off,  and  I've  come  to  take  you  out 
for  a  walk.' 

"'Wot?'  she  ses,  drawing  back  with  a 
start. 

"  'Just  a  little  turn  round  to  see  the  shops,' 
I  ses;  'and  if  there's  anything  particler  you'd 
like  and  it  don't  cost  too  much,  you  shall 
'ave  it.' 

"I  thought  at  fust,  from  the  way  she  took 
it,  she  wasn't  used  to  you  giving  'er  things. 

' 'Ow  dare  you!'  she  ses.  'I'll  'ave  you 
locked  up.  'Ow  dare  you  insult  a  respectable 
married  woman  I  You  wait  till  my  'usband 
comes  'ome.' 

'But  I  am  your  'usband,'  I  ses.  'Don't 
you  know  me,  my  pretty  ?  Don't  you  know 
your  pet  sailor-boy?' 

"She  gave  a  screech  like  a  steam-injin,  and 
then  she  went  next  door  and  began  knocking 
away  like  mad.  Then  I  see  that  I  'ad  gorn 
to  number  twelve  instead  of  number  four- 
teen. Your  wife,  your  real  wife,  came  out 
of  number  fourteen — and  she  was  worse  than 
244 


His  Other  Self 

the  other.  But  they  both  thought  it  was  you 
— there's  no  doubt  of  that.  They  chased  me 
all  the  way  up  the  road,  and  if  it  'adn't  ha'  been 
for  this  cab  that  was  just  passing  I  don't  know 
wot  would  *ave  'appened  to  me.'* 

He  shook  his  'ead  and  smiled  agin,  and, 
arter  opening  the  wicket  a  trifle  and  telling 
the  cabman  he  shouldn't  be  long,  he  turned 
to  me  and  asked  me  for  the  sixpence,  to  wear 
on  his  watch-chain. 

"Sixpence!"  I  ses.  "SIXPENCE!'*  Wot  do 
you  think  is  going  to  'appen  to  me  when  I  go 
'ome?" 

"Oh,  I  'adn't  thought  o'  that,"  he  ses. 
"Yes,  o'  course." 

"Wot  about  my  wife's  jealousy?"  I  ses. 
"Wot  about  the  other,  and  her  'usband,  a 
cooper  as  big  as  a  'ouse?" 

"Well,  well,"  he  ses,  "one  can't  think  of 
everything.  It'll  be  all  the  same  a  hundred 
years  hence." 

"Look  'ere,"  I  ses,  taking  'is  shoulder  in  a 
grip  of  iron.  "You  come  back  with  me  now 
245 


His  Other  Self 

in  that  cab  and  explain.  D'ye  see  ?  That's 
wot  you've  got  to  do." 

"All  right,"  he  ses;  "certainly.  Is — is  the 
husband  bad-tempered  ?" 

"You'll  see,"  I  ses;  "but  that's  your  busi- 
ness. Come  along." 

"With  pleasure,"  he  ses,  'elping  me  in. 
'"Arf  a  mo'  while  I  tell  the  cabby  where  to 
drive  to." 

He  went  to  the  back  o'  the  cab,  and  afore  I 
knew  wot  had  'appened  the  'orse  had  got  a 
flick  over  the  head  with  the  whip  and  was 
going  along  at  a  gallop.  I  kept  putting  the 
little  flap  up  and  telling  the  cabby  to  stop, 
but  he  didn't  take  the  slightest  notice.  Arter 
I'd  done  it  three  times  he  kept  it  down  so  as 
I  couldn't  open  it. 

There  was  a  crowd  round  my  door  when  the 
cab  drove  up,  and  in  the  middle  of  it  was  my 
missis,  the  woman  next  door,  and  'er  hus- 
band, wot  'ad  just  come  'ome.  'Arf  a  dozen 
of  'em  helped  me  out,  and  afore  I  could  say 
a  word  the  cabman  drove  off  and  left  me  there. 
246 


His  Other  Self 

I  dream  of  it  now  sometimes:  standing 
there  explaining  and  explaining,  until,  just  as 
I  feel  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer,  two  police- 
men come  up  and  Jelp  me  indoors.  If  they 
had  'elped  my  missis  outside  it  would  be  a 
easier  dream  to  have. 


247 


A     000176177 


